


Landslide

by aimmyarrowshigh, spibsy (lucy_and_ramona)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Cults, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternative Universe - FBI, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Animal Death, Assumed Identity, Blow Jobs, Child Abuse, Childbirth, Domestic Violence, F/M, Flashbacks, Frottage, Fugitives, Gun Violence, Guns, Het and Slash, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Kidnapping, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Murder, Northern Ireland, Oral Sex, Orgy, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Police Brutality, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Drama, Psychological Warfare, Racism, Scars, Tet Campaign, The Troubles, The WUO, Undercover, Undercover Missions, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vietnam War, cult psychology, kneecapping, sex with assumed identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:12:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 143,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1208974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucy_and_ramona/pseuds/spibsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1976. In November, Jimmy Carter will take control of the White House. Americans are meeting Laverne & Shirley at their apartment in Milwaukee. Hotel California diverges from the reign of Kool & the Gang. And the FBI is still reeling from the repercussions of Watergate, the tragedy at Wounded Knee, Operation Family Secrets, and the strategic terrors of the anti-cult movement.</p><p>That's what Special Agent Harry Styles has been told is the basis of his mission to an abandoned farmhouse in rural New Hampshire.</p><p>With his hair grown out long and his shirt untucked, he's going undercover to do reconnaissance on suspected cult leader Louis Tomlinson, who has led a group of people out into the middle of nowhere, leaving no record of the life he'd had before. All Harry knows is what the agency gave him: Tomlinson's name, and instructions to figure out what he's doing with the eleven people he brought with him.</p><p>In the year that Harry spends undercover and under Louis Tomlinson's wing, he learns more than he ever expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> **PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS IN THE TAGS CAREFULLY.** Also, the age difference in this 'verse between Louis and Daisy+Phoebe is what, in real life, the age difference is between Louis and Doris+Ernest. The age difference between Louis, Lottie, and Fizzy is what, in real life, the age difference is between Louis and Daisy+Phoebe. We just flibbleflobbled the ages to make things work better. Also, the limerick in Chapter Three is directly from Louis Sachar's _Sideways Stories at Wayside School_ , because it's funny and a limerick and nothing rhymes with purple.
> 
> Also, a huge huge thank you to Brittney for making a fanmix (to be linked tonight!), and to Tatum, Hannah, Courtney, and Maggie for the beta reads!

Harry feels a bit naked without his gun. He'd known he would, because that's just how it is: going undercover means you can't have your piece on you, even though you're technically still on the job. It's nerve-wracking, but it's not Harry's first gig, so he knows how to shut down the tremors in his legs and the buzz in his thoughts.

Ordinarily, undercover work means he's got to dress up in a snazzy suit and use his smile to charm bigwigs out of information, but that won't work now. He's in jeans and a t-shirt, and if he didn't know what he was here to do, he'd feel like he was out for a milk run.

The way in to Tomlinson's compound is innocuous at first glance. The whole area is grassy and green, and Harry can hear the faint murmur of people talking on the other side of the gate. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before he lets it out, shoulders relaxing, putting the most earnest expression he can muster on his face. It's time.

He has to pause to shake out his hair and sweep the immense fringe out of his eyes. Damn hippie long hair; he's never had it this outgrown since he was in diapers and Gemma thought his curls were too sweet to cut.

How do people deal with this? No matter, he's getting it all hacked off to regulation length the moment he gets back anyway. He can deal with a few stray hairs in his eyes every once in a while.

He feels exceptionally... jangly. Between the fringe on his jacket and the fringe on his face and the alarming breadth of denim around his ankles, it seems like a good gust of country wind could just pick Harry up and blow him away.

Or an arsenal of illegal weapons stored in a barn could. One or the other.

What's the etiquette here? Does he knock on the gate door? Does he just open it? He would've called ahead if they had a telephone number on record for this guy, but they barely got an address on him. The only time Harry's heard his voice is on a recording from about a year ago they got off a wiretap.

_"Make sure you close out your accounts... yeah, steady on... Federal Reserve–"_

The rest of the recording been unintelligible gibberish, but they had paid their informant anyway, a squirrelly skinhead called Max George whom they'd picked up in Skokie, organizing anti-Semite rallies. He'd said he knew dirt on a cult leader called Louis Tomlinson, so the Federal Bureau of Investigations, Organized Crime division, offered a bit of clemency in exchange for whatever panned out. Max George hadn't given them much proof with his statements, but a few seconds of conversation and an aggressive handwritten note were enough to spark Harry into action. Tomlinson certainly had not been shy in threatening Max George’s men to stay away from his “family.” 

Politest to knock, Harry decides. He doesn't want to be caught out being rude to a _cult leader_. When he joined the agency, this isn't what he had in mind, but, well, whatever he can do for the country, he supposes.

He smooths down the front of his shirt and raps on the gate three times. It's surprisingly loud, the sound of his knuckles on the wood.

He waits for a five-count before knocking again. There's no answer, and the silence around him seems... ominous. He can't hear anything now: any people, any machinery. Just the softly whispering admonishment of the wildflowers and fieldgrass urging him to _shh_.

Maybe this isn't the place. Max George did seem full of shit.

"Hi," pipes a voice from behind Harry. He doesn't have to fake a startled jump, and only just keeps himself from reaching to his side for the piece he doesn't have. How didn't he hear anybody approaching? He turns to see a rather inquisitive-faced fellow tilting his head at him.

His instincts are screaming. This man can't be that much older than Harry, and his countenance is as mild as anything, but his blue eyes are intelligent and piercing.

"Can I help you?" the man asks him, eyes flicking from Harry to the gate and back again. "Are you looking for somebody?"

"Er, yeah," Harry stumbles, his backstory taking a moment to click back into place. "I'm–I don't really know who I am, I suppose. I was hoping to figure that out, you know? Seemed like a nice place."

The man's face relaxes just a smidge, a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "It is a nice place," he agrees. "And a good place to come if you want to find yourself." He holds out his hand to Harry, head still tilted at an inquisitive angle. "I'm Louis. Is there a name you'd like to be called?"

 _Louis_. This is Louis. This is Louis Tomlinson.

He's not at all what Harry expected. Harry figured he'd be... less washed. At the least. Taller, probably. More intimidating, maybe, at least to someone as trained at spotting manipulation and deceit as Harry. Harry's interrogated Iranian spies (interrogated them to a pulp) who gave away more with their eyes than this guy.

"I'm George," he says smoothly, and he takes Tomlinson's hand.

"Good handshake, George," says Louis Tomlinson, smiling. "You've got a grip."

Harry ducks his head a little and laughs, rubbing the back of his neck with his other hand. "Thank you. I've never heard that before."

Tomlinson hums a laugh, giving Harry's hand another squeeze before he lets it go. "Would you like to come along? Sorry to keep you waiting. I'm afraid nearly everybody's out in the fields at this time of the day. I can show you if you'd like."

 _Fields of what?_ This might be easier than Harry thought. He could make his case by the end of the week, maybe take the weekend to make the trip to Gemma's for a Sunday roast chicken with Ma and Robin. He might not even have to miss his Saturday morning cartoons.

"Yeah, okay," Harry says, falling into lockstep with Tomlinson. He needs to shorten his stride substantially, and he plays a continuous loop in his head of reminders to _loosen up, Styles, try slouching a bit for god's sake, you walk like a cop_.

"It's nice to see a new face around these parts," says Tomlinson, strolling along. He doesn't seem in any hurry to get to 'the fields'. "Obviously, I love every member of our little family, but you understand, we don't get many strangers on this patch of land."

"It's out of the way, isn't it?" Harry asks. "I can't imagine too many people have even found it all the way out here."

"That's very true." Tomlinson seems pleased by his contribution to the conversation. "It's usually only the people who need us the most."

He takes a breath deep enough to lift the tangle of long macrame necklaces on his chest, then gives Harry a soft-eyed, introspective look. "What do you need, George without a last name? Besides a last name, presumably."

What does he need? What sort of question is that? He needs what everybody needs, food and shelter and that. He guesses that's probably not the answer Tomlinson's looking for. What does Harry need? How does he answer this?

Looking off past the grassy hills and little yellow flowers, he mutters, "Freedom."

It's a good, solid answer. It's why he's here, isn't it? Why he joined the Bureau. Containment, order, good American values. Freedom.

Tomlinson doesn't take it that way, of course, going even more soft-eyed and sympathetic. Probably a load of shit, probably gives that look to everybody. If nothing else, he's got charm. Harry can see how he's reeled so many people in.

"I hope you can find that here, George," says Tomlinson. The backs of his knuckles briefly touch to Harry's. "I would love to give that to you."

Harry's hand feels burnt. If that's what Tomlinson read into Harry's _"freedom"_ , well, he has another thing coming. People might bandy about Hoover now that he's gone -- at last year’s Christmas party, Cuthbert put on his wife’s high heels and everyone except Harry and the section chief, Grimshaw, had a good laugh -- but Harry knows full well that there's one thing a good agent is not and Harry _is_ a good agent.

"Oh, there's everyone." Tomlinson points, and it becomes clear that the 'everyone' he's referring to is a group of maybe fifteen people, some men, some women, a few children. They're sat in the grass in little groups, and conversation buzzes between them. 

Damn it, it takes a special kind of scum to fuck with kids. Harry has to punch his anger down lest he ruin everything. He has no doubt that Tomlinson has a plan in place for police intervention. For all he knows, there are bombs hidden on the property, or a suicide pact. Harry's seen some screwed up stuff in the line of work. 

Children change Harry's entire protocol. He cannot fail. He'll need to try for an evacuation.

That's harder.

Those have seldom worked.

One of the kids looks up from where she's sprawled in the wildflowers and weeds, purple-red smears all around her mouth, and shrieks. Fat toddler legs tromp through the grass at top speed and she collides with Tomlinson's legs.

Well, she doesn't seem scared of him, Harry thinks, but that doesn't mean anything when you're brainwashed, now does it?

"Hello, love." Tomlinson bends and then hoists her up, propping her on his hip. His face barely changes, but there's something more indulgent about the wrinkles at the sides of his eyes. "Would you like to meet a new friend? This is George. Why don't you say hello?"

"Hi!" the kid chirps, fingers in her mouth. Her hands are stained, too, but she seems... all right. She's been fed, at any rate, and like Tomlinson, she looks suspiciously clean.

"Hello," says Harry back to her. She's very blonde, with her hair in three little purple-stained pigtails.

"This is Lux. Her mom’s around here somewhere; I can introduce you later." Tomlinson is absently bouncing the kid, and doesn't seem to mind that she's putting her grubby hands all over his shirt. "How's your day been, Miss Lux?"

"Mmm!" Lux coos, then pats Tomlinson's scrubby cheeks.

If Harry weren't about to throttle him for keeping kids here, it'd be sweet.

"You don't say?" Tomlinson grins at her and it changes his whole disposition. It's not manic, or crazed. He’s charming. Looks like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He’s the most dangerous sort of man.

The tiny kid plays with Tomlinson's necklaces as he keeps on the grin and aims it at Harry. _This is how he gets them_ , Harry thinks. Waits for people who think they could just be better if someone were nice to them, then hits them with the “love.” And then they give him all their money and he does who knows what with their assets and their families. For all Harry knows, Lux could be Tomlinson's daughter. Or future wife. 

He makes himself smile back. _George_ would be charmed by this, Harry's sure.

"It's the first day the blackberries have been ripe enough to eat off the vine," Louis explains. "We've had a right feast." He gently loosens Lux's grip where she's strangling him with a bolo seashell necklace. "As you can see, Miss Lux here being caught red-handed and all."

Lux doesn't look very sorry, instead pushing herself with a quiet grunt to get her arms around Tomlinson's neck. He continues speaking as she promptly falls asleep. "You're welcome to the berries, if you'd like some. There's plenty to go around and they're quite the treat on a warm day like this."

"Right," Harry says. "Thanks. Is that – I mean, what else do you do around here? Gotta make a living somehow, don't you?"

That earns him a shrug. "There's no better living than being surrounded by good people," Tomlinson says. "It's the best living I've ever made."

Definitely growing something other than berries around here.

"Far out," Harry replies. "Yeah, I love berries. Doesn't everyone?"

"All the good people," says Tomlinson cheerily. "Or, I suppose, people with berry allergies probably don't."

"Probably not," Harry agrees. Tomlinson sets Lux down on her sturdy little legs and they're both following her through the tall grass again, over to the huddle of little groups, everyone with a tin pail and red fingers.

"You can introduce yourself to the others as you meet them," Tomlinson says. Harry should probably call him Louis, even mentally, if he doesn't want his tone to give away his cover. "But I figured you could stay with one of the others to help you get used to the atmosphere around here. I know it can be... difficult to acclimate yourself."

"Who says I'm staying?" Harry asks, chin out. He is, of course, but it can't be this simple. There's always something. Ass, cash, or grass, nobody gets nothing for free. It's the '70s.

Louis' eyebrows raise. "You're right, of course, I shouldn't have assumed," he says smoothly. "You're welcome to leave if you decide you'd rather not. But it's a very nice place. I think you'll like it."

"I haven't found many places I liked," Harry says, being George again, forlorn and impressionable and weak-mindedly needy. It's not a lie, really, because he didn't like Tehran or Detroit or anywhere else he's been sent. (Detroit was a bit of a failure. Stood out like a sore thumb. Chicago was better; he has the nose for it.)

Louis' eyes shine. "Neither did I, until here," he replies. "I think you'll fit in."

Harry watches Lux stomp her way over to the remaining pair of children. She squats down and sticks her hand right into their pail of berries, stealing a handful that squishes and runs down her arm. Harry expects a bit of squabbling, as she clearly didn't help to pick them.

But they don't. One of two kids who he now sees are identical just takes Lux into her lap and helps to peel the blackberries away from their hard white torus spines.

Harry should find a wire and inquire about missing children in the area. There can't be many sets of twin runaways.

"There are a few children about," says Louis, watching Harry watch the kids. "They're very well-behaved; they know their manners, so you won't have to worry about tantrums very often."

"I like kids," Harry says. It's true; he loves children, which is why he's angry to see so many in this place. Too many terrible things could happen in a place like this.

Louis Tomlinson just nods at that, and Harry isn't sure how to interpret. He hadn't expected kids; they don't have their own money, so it's unlikely the compound takes in runaways. But he hasn't been asked for cash yet, either.

"They look alike," Harry says, because it's true. All blonde. All _girls_ , which is worrying. Where are the boys? "Are they yours?"

Louis snickers at a joke Harry wasn't aware he was telling. "Oh, no, no. My sisters, apart from Lux. Daisy, Phoebe. She likes to go by ‘Sunshine’ lately." He points to each as he names them.

"Your sisters?" Harry is surprised. Usually cult leaders don't bring the real world with them. Defeats the purpose, really.

"Yes. They live with me here." Louis smiles at him. "They're the best part of my life, really. Don't know where I'd be without them. Without any of this." He looks back over at the children. He seems always to be absently smiling.

Something isn't adding up correctly in Harry's head, and he can only hope that his confusion doesn't come across on "George's" face.

"Well!" Louis claps suddenly, turning back to Harry. "Now you've seen the field. We come out here a lot, as it's quiet, and it's nice to relax in the grass. Most of our time is spent back at the homestead, though. If you'd like to come and see?"

Bingo, baby.

"Yeah, sure, alright," Harry says. "Groovy."

"Far out." Louis turns, and, beckoning Harry over his shoulder, leads the way.

It's eerie, being out this far in the country. Harry's not exactly an urban fixture, but he can't get used to the _silence_ here. There isn't even noise from the road, no cars starting, no hum of telephone wires.

The journey back is mostly quiet, though Louis does point out apparent landmarks, like the well they use to retrieve water, and the various fruit-bearing, oddly shaped trees. Harry nods along, filing the information away.

It's not as though he'd expected to be strapped down and beaten until he paid them off and then given a blood sacrifice, or anything, but he'd expected... something more than this. There aren't even fences. 

How aren't there fences?

The only barrier between them and the outside world is the gate Harry'd been knocking on, and even that could be climbed, probably, or unlocked with the right tools.

So what's keeping people here? Is Louis really so charming that people are willing to stay here?

Whatever he's giving people as "salvation," it must be potent stuff.

"Here we are," Louis announces. He pushes open the gate, doesn't unlock it or anything. Was it unlocked the whole time? Did he figure out a way to get a message back to let somebody know he was returning?

Harry has so many questions and not enough answers.

The farm they've co-opted is old; there's no doubt about that. It isn't decrepit, and it isn't underground, though, so Harry feels a bit better about needing to live here than he had on the train ride out from Washington. It looks as though they've taken some care with it, even, all whitewashed and carefully repaired. There's glass in most of the windows, although there aren't knobs on the doors.

"It's not much," says Louis. "It's ours, though, and that's already better than what a lot of us had where we were before." He offers Harry another smile. "I don't know where you came from, and I won't ask, because it's your business. But I do hope you stay."

There's a tire swing hanging from one of the big trees flanking the doors.

It doesn't look... well, it doesn't seem like a place that Max George would know about, really. But Harry's met plenty of people in his life who hid their darkness inside, and he's been plenty of places that knew where to conceal their secrets, too. He has enough scars never to forget that.

This psychopath has kids stashed away here for whatever nefarious purposes, and Harry can't forget about that fact for even a second.

When the door opens and Harry takes his first steps into the compound Louis Tomlinson calls his "homestead," Harry instinctively reaches for the gun that isn't strapped to his waist.

But he doesn't have a gun, and he can't give himself away like that. He's better than this. He's the best undercover agent they've got and he's behaving like an amateur.

Something about having Louis standing behind him has Harry on edge, even more than the arms dealers twice his size or the mafia men who expected him to be carrying and for him to use his weapons for them. There's a presence to Louis Tomlinson, and it isn't what Harry expected. 

People who can surprise Harry aren’t common anymore. And maybe Harry's come to rely on the quietly jaded, doughy feeling of having seen it all more than he realized.

Either way, he feels less twitchy when Louis crosses over in front of him. He does not trust anything about this man, and having him behind him makes him long for this case to be over and done with.

"Home sweet home," Louis announces, doing a little spin in the open foyer of the old wooden house. Highly flammable. Harry hopes he doesn't need to use that information. "The fields are fair game for anyone who finds them, man, but the house and the barn are just for family and good friends, dig?"

"Yeah, yeah, s'all gravy." Harry is _good at this_. He has no idea what it is about Louis Tomlinson is throwing all his training out the window, but he's going to make sure the fucker pays for it as soon as possible. "Real nice place you got here."

If he's acting, then Louis Tomlinson is a good actor. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he gives an impish grin at that, and it's – it's very genuine, is how Harry decides to feel about that. 

And anyway, it wasn't really a lie. Compared to the photos from other infiltrated cults in files Harry studied to prepare for whatever conditions he'd been living in, this place is a palace. There's a bit of an old wood mildew smell, but hardly the piles of human detritus and old needles everywhere that he'd seen in other dwellings for lost souls.

No other kids inside, either. He imagines all of them would've been out in that field, enjoying the fresh air. Now that he's been inside a few minutes, he's getting used to the faint smell, but it must be nice to go out and eat berries and be a child.

 _Get your head together, Styles_ , he chides himself. _You aren't here to tune in, turn on, and drop out._

He puts on an appropriately interested expression as Louis shows him around a little, a kitchen and a sitting room where you can play checkers or chess or Monopoly. Louis is very animated when he speaks, his hands flying all over and his face lighting up when he comes across something that excites him.

Louis Tomlinson seems so excited by board games and milled oats, and Harry is struck once again by how unintimidating Louis seems. It's all an act, clearly, but it's a damn good one.

And he hasn't referenced God once, Harry notices, following him around the ground floor of the seemingly sprawling old farmhouse. He hasn't equated the food they eat to divine energy and he hasn't referred to being blessed or being chosen or being saved or even being special. He said that Monopoly was _the grooviest game ever invented about a fucked up system_ , but that's about the most anarchist words that have come out of his mouth.

Maybe he's waiting until he trusts Harry more to start revealing state secrets. Shouldn't take too long. Harry's very trustworthy, and it's not too hard to get someone to slip when they don't think you're anybody important.

That's the thing about cult leaders, Harry knows. They don't think anyone's important but themselves, but they know all the tricks to make you feel like they think you matter – as long as you act like the sun shines out of their asses.

Charisma is key. You can be up yourself so far that you're spitting out short 'n curlies, but as long as you can make people feel good about themselves, they won't notice. And that's the most dangerous thing about people like Louis. They make people feel good.

"So?" Louis asks, finally, hands in his pockets and hips jutted out. "Do you think we could help you find what you're looking for?"

Harry smiles, looking down and toeing the ground. Bashful. Bashful and pleased that someone's taking an interest in him. "I think, I think, yeah. If that's okay?"

"'Course it's okay, George. Only rule is that sharing is caring. If it's yours, it's all of ours. Have anything worth sharing today?"

Harry shoves his hands into his pockets. All he has is lint, and a wallet with a forged ID card. He shakes his head. "I haven't got anything worth anything, sir," he says softly.

"Sir?" Louis Tomlinson looks over both shoulders. He gives Harry a comically goggle-eyed, " _Me_? Nah, man, that talk's for suits and squares," before he steps right up into Harry's space for the first time, both hands on Harry's shoulders, and says, "Everyone's got something worth something, George. You've got you."

This is how he snags them. Wide-eyed earnestness and casual touching and reaffirming their worth as a person. Harry knows how this works. He knows how Louis works.

He bites his lip and looks down, then up again. "I've got me," he repeats. "Yeah, guess I do."

"Soon enough, you won't have to guess," Louis murmurs. "You'll just know. Good country air and nice people, simple life. It might take you a bit to get used our lives here, but stick close to me if you're shy and you'll fit in in no time."

Good, now he won't have to make up excuses to be around Louis all the time. This is working out perfectly. "Really? You mean that?" he asks, making his eyes as wide as they go.

Louis Tomlinson's teeth are sharp and small when he smiles. But he has all of them, and that's a bit of a pleasant surprise in itself. "I only say things I mean, man. That's the true path to happiness, I think."

Harry gives Louis an introspective nod, like he's just solved the meaning of life or something. "Right on," he murmurs, trying for a smile, pleased when it slides easily onto his face.

Louis' small hands squeeze Harry's shoulders. "Right on. C'm'along! It's my turn to make the grub, and since you're here, you can help."

"Yeah, yeah, of course. I'd love to help." Harry just hopes he doesn't get any of his stupid jacket fringe into the food. How do people get around with this much cloth just hanging off of them?

He's probably carrying birds in his hair at this point. He shakes out his fringe and sweeps it all out of the way with an impatient hand. When his eyes are clear, Louis is looking at him with a weird little smile. 

"What?"

"You look like a German Shepherd when you do that," Louis says and turns to walk to the creaky kitchen. "Makes me want to pet you."

Oh, hell, his first impression was probably right, then. Well, that's a viable tactic for getting someone to trust you. He puts on a tentative grin, a flash of teeth. "Woof."

That crinkle-eyed smile may be the best trick Harry's ever seen.

"Good boy," Louis says back to him, and then he bends to rummage through a cupboard once they've arrived in the room. "What d'you think, for food? We've got anything in a can."

"I can make a [sweet corn and weenie casserole](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NcwEJVEy07E/UMeAO-9FCAI/AAAAAAAAEoY/kS-9yqm1Hrs/s400/005.jpg)," Harry offers.

 

"Ooh, we do like corn. The kids would love that." Louis shoots Harry a smile over his shoulder. "We usually try to stick to food we've grown ourselves, or what we can forage from the earth in the name of self-reliance, but every once in a while it's nice to have the extra salt-intake."

"That can be what I share today," Harry says. "Salt."

Crinkly eyes again. "Told you that you'd have something to share, didn't I?"

Harry can't help smiling when he thinks about Gemma's horror the first time he'd come to one of her potlucks with a sweet corn and weenie casserole as his contribution. "Guess you were right."

"I'm always right. One of my more annoying habits." Louis straightens up with a can in hand. "It was hiding behind the green beans. Now, how do you make a sweet corn and weenie casserole?"

"Erm, I'd need bread and mayonnaise and noodles and the corn, and some weenies. And an oven. And mustard, if you have it."

"Hmm," Louis hums, toddling over to the refrigerator in one corner. It's not very big, but there seems to be an extraordinary selection of food in it when it's open. "Let's see... we've got the oven, clearly."

He frowns. "Doesn't always work well. May need a match."

"Well," says Harry, "we could just mix everything together in a bowl and start a fire underneath it. Not sure how that'd turn out, though."

"Campfire cooking!" Louis says enthusiastically. "We'll dine al fresco tonight, like the posh city you've left behind, George. I like how your mind works. I like you."

Harry understands, then, how people are so taken by Louis, because he's here to do his job and that's all, but he still feels a warm grateful spark fizzle bright in the pit of his stomach before he tamps it down.

"I like you, too," he laughs, tucking his thumbs into his pockets and looking back down at the floor.

Louis smiles. "We don't have mayonnaise, unfortunately, but would a Campbell's Cream of Something do you?"

"Could, I think," says Harry agreeably. "Cream of mushroom, I'd think, or maybe even creamed corn."

"We have many types of corn," Louis promises. "Canned regular. Canned creamed. Canned baby corn. Did you know baby corn is not tiny little ears of corn? It's something totally different. Could do well, though, shaped like weenies."

"Then it'd be weenie corn casserole, and that's something entirely different." Harry gives it a good think, because while Cream of Mushroom soup would be closest in consistency, creamed corn would add more corn flavored goodness to the casserole.

"I'll try the creamed corn," he says. "And the regular corn, of course, 'cause that's the corn part. D'you have weenies?"

Louis Tomlinson, suspected cult leader, snorts through his nose.

"I think we've got canned ones, yeah." Louis bends to dig in the cupboards again, cupboards which he can now see are filled with cans of all sorts. "We had normal hot dogs, but you've got to eat them pretty soon after you get them or they go bad."

"Where do you get all this food?" Harry asks, tracing over the country route in his mind. There haven't been robberies reported that he knows of, but he'll wire the home office to check.

"Some people bring food when they come here. Some of it's donated." Louis' voice is muffled as he leans his whole body into the cupboard. "Like I said, a lot of stuff we just make when we can."

He gives Harry a grin when he emerges and throws over a can of frankfurters. "You should try Jesy's pasta, George. Amazing what can be done with flour and water."

"Can you make pasta with flour and water?" Harry asks, slightly shocked. He's never really thought about what goes _into_ pasta. It's just a food. Pasta goes into things. Things don't go into pasta.

"Jesy can," Louis says. "I'm not great shakes at cooking, so I think the family'll love that you're here with a good casserole up your sleeve. Otherwise, we'd be looking at egg and ketchup sandwiches again. My specialty."

"Is Jesy one of the other people who lives here?" It's an easy enough thing to infer, what with how she makes food for them and they don't seem to like outsiders.

Although they did like Harry well enough. Probably all the fringe.

"Yeah, you'll meet her soon enough. She's the one who usually makes the food. Her or Zayn, he does a lot of it too." Louis busies himself with a bowl. "Do I get to watch your chef mastery in action, or do you need to cook alone?"

"It's just a lot of mixing," Harry says, and his cheeks feel a little pink.

"Sounds fascinating." Louis hops up onto the counter and folds his hands in his lap, feet knocking against the cupboards below. There are scuff marks there already, some faded and some brand new.

Harry busies himself mixing things in a bowl, and Louis pays close attention the entire time, as though he's doing something remarkable by putting corn and weenies in the same bowl. As though Harry's doing something indescribably intelligent.

He's very good, Louis Tomlinson. If Harry was actually George, he'd probably fall all over himself.

He mixes together the soup and the corn and then soaks the bread slices in the mixture – "for thickness," he explains, and Cult Leader Louis Tomlinson nods seriously and says, "need to have some thickness to your weenie" – before piling it all in a casserole dish that looks like someone's grandmother's stolen Depression glass and topping the whole lot with a few canned sausages.

"Well, that's something, isn't it?" says Louis cheerfully, hopping down off his perch to pull a book of matches from his pocket. "Stand back, lest your lovely hair get singed."

Harry's mouth presses into a tight line. "I thought it was hip."

"Your hair? It is, love; that's why I don't want anything terrible to happen to it." Louis raises his eyebrows and bobs them a few times. "I've burned my eyebrows off many a time since we've had to use this piece of devilry."

Harry watches as Louis lights a match and lets it burn down close to his fingertips – bitten nails, he notes – before he chucks it down to light the oven. Devilry. "Well they've grown back, looks like."

"They have indeed." Louis brushes his hands off against each other. "Alright, that's lit, but obviously quite hot, so if you don't mind chucking that casserole right in, I can start collecting everyone for dinner."

Harry does, and while he doesn't fancy staying in this cult any longer than need be, he also knows that burning their compound down on the first day probably wouldn't be a very good introduction, so he stays in the kitchen while his casserole tries its best to cook. He snoops through the cabinets and drawers so long as he's alone: there's no mail, none at all, and there are infinitely more spoons than there are forks, for some reason.

People trail in every so often, wondering after the smell, and though Harry gets a few curious looks, nobody actually asks him anything even though they must be dying to know who he is. Unless Louis has already told them, which is another possibility.

Most of them don't _look_ like the type of people who would be in a cult, but maybe you never can tell.

Harry only counts two children among the group who wander in, little Lux not among them. There are only the twins, little blonde heads bobbing as they walk.

Louis' "sisters". Harry's not ruling out that they might be his children. If they’re his sisters, where’s their mother?

One of the two small ones is wearing a chain of daisies around her head. She comes right up to Harry, no fear at all, and fiddles with the fringe on his jacket. "Can I have this?"

"Erm," he says, surprised. She has a very happy face, and this close he can see Louis in her eyes and her jaw. "Yeah, I guess. What's mine is yours, right?" That's what Louis had said, and he doesn't want to piss off Louis and end up getting poisoned or something.

He checks his jacket pockets before slipping it off his shoulders, crouching down to hold it out for her.

She beams, two missing teeth on the bottom, the spiky edges of too-big adult teeth halfway grown through. "Far out!"

"It is, isn't it?" It's impossible not to smile at her as she turns around and shoves her arms into the sleeves. The jacket is gigantic on her.

The fringe drags on the ground, but the girl just begins to spin, letting it flare out around her in a wild, furling dance. She spins right into the side of a couple who are standing at the cabinets taking down drink glasses.

"Whoopsie, Daisy!" says the man – he's dark, bespectacled, reminds Harry of some of the jobs he's gone on before this one. But cleaner, and wearing a smile. His hair's cut shorter, too, nearly a respectable length. He picks up the spinning, giggling girl and sets her down on the countertop out of the way.

"Lookit my jacket!" she exclaims, holding her arms up so that the fringe beneath them spreads wide like stringy wings. "Am I pretty?"

"It's a bit large for you," the man says. "But it's ace." He touches the flowers on her crown, and Harry watches keenly, hands out of his pockets. "I like your crown better."

"Perrie made it for me." She grins her gap-toothed grin again and flaps her fringe wings. "It's daisies 'cause I'm Daisy."

"I know!" he chuckles. "Who'd'you think taught that square to make a good flower crown, huh?"

She – Daisy, apparently – giggles and smacks a kiss to the man's bearded cheek before squirming out of his arms and flapping her way over to the identical tiny child on the other side of the room.

Harry sidles over, as casually as he can, and takes a glass from the same cabinet. "Flower crowns?"

The man throws Harry a polite smile, bobbing his head in a nod. "The kids love them, and there's all sorts you can make them out of out in the field."

"Is that what you did in the real world?" Harry asks. "Make flower crowns?"

Dark-lashed eyes flash suddenly behind the broad black-rimmed glasses. "You're new." The man shakes his head. "That's not something you ask here."

"Oh." Harry can feel himself blushing, which is ridiculous, because this is all just a job, and he's supposed to ask probing questions. Something about being here has him all tied up in knots, and he really wants to be home eating food that isn't out of a can with people who aren't in a cult. "I'm – I'm sorry."

The flashing look dissipates. A shoulder shrugs, and Harry can see black tattoos under the white cotton. Former military, maybe? A lot of enlisted men came back fucked up and might want to spend their days making flower crowns.

"Hey, you're new. You know now. Not a problem." He gives Harry half a smile.

Holding out a hand, he shifts his stance, and it's somehow more welcoming. "I'm Zayn. The tiny one who's made off with your jacket's Daisy, and the one that looks like her but without the flower crown is Phoebe."

"I'm _Sunshine_ ," corrects Not-Daisy, darting out from beneath the rickety farmhouse kitchen table and barrelling towards Zayn's legs like a log jammer.

"Right, sorry, I forgot. Sunshine." Zayn calmly intercepts the steamroller masquerading as a child, scooping her up into his arms. "Louis' little sisters. I'm assuming you've met Louis?" He raises a curious eyebrow.

"Yeah, 'course," Harry says. He reminds himself to slouch a little, shoulders down, relaxed. Phoebe-or-Sunshine gives Harry a grin missing her two canines, a reverse of her sister.

It's difficult to relax around so many people that you have to distrust, no matter how nice they are, because this isn't a nice place. The berries and flowers might have people fooled, but Harry's in the know, and he's seen too many false palaces like this to believe in the benefit of the doubt.

There's a clamor as the door swings open and shut one last time, Louis arriving home like a conquering hero to a cheer and a flurry of hugs and kisses as he bears little Lux in his arms, a flower crown of her own little dandelions draped across two of her pigtails.

"Everybody here, then?" he asks loudly, twisting from one hug right into another hug. His cheeks are a bit flushed with laughter and his eyes sparkle. Harry would've thought that was only something that happened in Disney flicks. "Someone do a head count."

"There's an extra!" hollers a woman with the longest, wildest hair that Harry's ever seen, pointing straight at him. "Dunno where you think you can keep all these strays, Lewis!"

"In my pocket with the rest of you," Louis shoots back, grasping her outstretched hand and doing a twirl underneath it. "I've got pretty big pockets, y'see, and he's made a casserole for us all."

The woman laughs as Louis dips her, Lux screeching in his other arm. Her hair brushes the floor when she's bent back, it's so long. "Oh, well, if he's made a casserole."

"See? And you thought that you'd have to cook tonight." Louis smacks a kiss to her cheek and darts away before she can punch his arm. "Everybody at the table, please, and someone be a dear and grab a chair for George as well."

"George?" asks a blond man with the crookedest front teeth in New Hampshire. "That's the creakiest old fogey name in the world, man. You don't look like a George."

Harry tries on a laugh. "How can I not look like my name?"

"You look like a... Dweezil." He pulls out a chair and sits, a petite woman with warm brown skin immediately settling into his lap. "Or a Ken."

"I think I look like a George, as that's what I am." Harry laces his fingers behind his back and dips his chin. It's not hard, even though he's quite tall, to make himself look smaller. It's all about tricking the eyes and more about how vulnerable you can look than your stature.

There's a miniature stampede as most people find chairs around the table for themselves, but the blond man just gives Harry a shrug and an easy grin. "Fair enough. You can be George if y'want to."

Even though it shouldn't, that makes Harry's spine bristle a bit.

A hand presses to the small of his back, gentle fingers against his spine. "You can sit down if you'd like," comes Louis' voice from close to him. "Don't mind Niall, you get used to him. You've got a seat across from Daisy. I'll take your casserole out. It smells fantastic."

It smells mainly like corn and charring frankfurters, but Harry hasn't eaten since the cup of coffee and a donut he had on the road here, before he ditched his car for a bicycle, and with an empty stomach anything will smell like heaven.

There is indeed an empty chair across from the tiny flower-crowned blonde girl, and Harry slides into it. Nobody is looking at him apart from Daisy, arms flapping some more, but he still feels prickly and on guard.

He's guessing prickly and on guard would fit in nicely among some of the people here.

"Are you cold without your coat, Mister?" Daisy asks, kicking Harry's knees soundly under the tabletop.

Harry winces, but shakes his head. "Erm, no," he says softly. "I'm just fine. You could probably use it more than me."

Daisy sticks the end of her twin's braid into her mouth, and Harry wrinkles his nose. Daisy just chuckles and grins at him. "You look cold. And you got socks on!"

"I like socks." Harry's brow furrows and he peers under the table at his own feet. 

Daisy goggles at him, pulling a terrible face, but soon enough she's distracted by Baby Lux's shrieky yell and the smell of the sizzling casserole hitting the table to great, enthusiastic applause.

Harry's never been applauded for his cooking before. Mocked, a bit, maybe questioned, but never applauded.

It's just canned corn and more canned corn and some canned weenies but the applause makes it seem like a gourmet meal that he slaved over. He shoves down the warmth that bubbles in his chest. Ridiculous, that all it takes is a little bit of complimentary clapping and he's going soft.

"Everyone, settle!" Louis' voice is more bright than loud, but he still commands the room like a lion. He has _presence_ , is what he has. The ‘x’ factor, that je ne sais quois people are always singing songs about. "I'd like to start off the grace by saying what I am most thankful for today, and even more than the sunshine and the lovely company as always, what I am most grateful for today is our new friend and brother, George, and not only because he's made us this hot meal." He reaches over and settles a hand on Harry's shoulder. "It's not every day that someone will appear and offer kindness for only kindness in return, and I look forward to George's continued company in our little family."

He gives Harry a smile, and Harry smiles back through the sick slimy slide in his stomach. He'd thought, hoped, wanted this to be something other than what he knew it was. Clearly, it's everything he was told to expect.

Louis looks to Daisy next, who spouts off something about being thankful for Perrie and her flower-crowns, and it continues on down the table, people naming what they're grateful for, happy, one-by-one.

They all talk about things like the blackberries or Lux very nearly saying a whole word (although Harry doesn't really see how "glooba" sounds like "groovy"), until Niall says, "I'm grateful the peace demonstration in Belfast didn't turn into a riot."

Zayn, beside him, nods and says, "I'm grateful for Wotruba's cubism." Then he smirks. "And that California just repealed the sodomy law."

 _Do. Not. Tense. Do not. Tense. Do. Not. Tense. Relax your shoulders. Everything's groovy and gravy and far out._ Harry's expression doesn't change even as his thoughts all scurry into a frenzy. He just knew it, he just _knew_ it.

Everyone around the table just laughs, though, except Daisy and Sunshine-or-Phoebe. Lux makes a displeased small sound, and the woman who'd introduced herself as Lou clucks and starts nursing her, right at the table. Harry looks up at the ceiling.

"Okay, move along. Filthy perverts, the lot of you," jeers Louis' voice, and everybody just laughs more. There is not a single place in the world Harry wouldn't rather be.

It's not like Harry's never been around the block, but he's an Iowa boy, milk-fed and Midwestern.

And when you have the job he has, with the people he works with... some things stick more than others. He'll just have to deal with that and get over it if he wants to do his duty correctly.

(This isn't something he had to deal with in Chicago – _sodomy_ , he whispers the word even in his head – but trying to explain why he wasn't picking out a rentgirl with the rest of the Giancana men is one of those things that sticks. He remembers how empty their eyes looked, and he remembers how grateful the one Sam finally shoved at Harry had been when Harry sat down with her in the back room and said he just wanted to talk.)

The person next to him is talking, another blonde, but this one older with massive eyes and her hair piled in a messy bun at the top of her head. It takes Harry a moment to find the word he's searching for, but when she's talking she's very _cute_ , all bouncy effervescence and her words like a song without a tune.

"I am grateful that my Zayn took his nose out of a book today," she says, teasing, and pokes Zayn's shoulder. "Even if I know fuck-all about cubism."

For some reason, Harry's startled by her casual cursing. It's not that he's old-fashioned enough to think that women shouldn't say dirty words, just that she looks like a pixie fairy princess, a little bit, and it's jarring that she even knows the word 'fuck'. He half expects sparkly dust to sprinkle from her fingertips.

He glances quickly to Daisy and Probably Phoebe, too, but they don't look the least concerned. Daisy's still got her twin's hair in her mouth, and they're both leaning with heavy elbows on the tabletop, staring with wide eyes at the cooling casserole.

"You're last up, then, love," says Fairy Princess, turning to Harry and tilting her head so that her bun goes flopping sideways. "What're you thankful for? Other than getting to sit next to me."

"Uh." Harry exhales. "I'm uh, I guess I'm thankful that you're all letting me sit here with you." (On Harry's first night in Chicago, he'd slept on a bench in Union Station. For the first week after he'd proven himself into the Giancanas, he slept with the dogs in the basement.) "And I'm thankful I know the recipe for corn and weenie casserole, because otherwise you'd all have to pretend to like my Ketchup Soup."

"Ew," Daisy says with a scrunched up face, spitting out the braid in her mouth. "I'm changin' mine, 'cause I'm thankful I don't have to eat that."

"Daisy," sighs Louis, "be polite." His brows furrow. "Did you steal his jacket?"

"No, no, it's fine," Harry says quickly. He doesn't want to know what happens to the children here who misbehave, but he won't be the cause of it if he can help it. "I told her she was welcome to it. I was a bit warm anyway."

Louis looks slightly skeptical, but Daisy just smiles as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth and he sighs. "You were not, but she's a miserable beautiful thief. Daze, if George here ever wants that back, you give it to him, alright?"

"I will." Daisy sighs heavily, much too heavily for lungs as small as hers must be. How did she even intake that much air?

Harry tries giving her a smile. "You really can keep it. I don't think fringe suits me."

"I'll be honest with you, I can't imagine a single thing that wouldn't suit you," pipes Fairy Princess. "You've got a very nice face. A good face for fringe."

Harry coughs and sweeps his bangs out of his face again. Her hand is on his thigh.

"Perrie," Louis says, and there's no particular reprimand in his voice, but the hand on Harry's leg disappears.

So Perrie might belong to Louis.

That makes more sense.

And it's a sight better than his wife being any of the children, Harry supposes.

Although Zayn's comment -- do the _men_ belong to Louis, too?

He'll have to find that out. Of course, the point of his being here is for him to find _everything_ out. Louis hasn't behaved very untowardly in Harry's direction, but you never can tell, really.

It's something that Harry trusts when he puts on his black suit and simple tie every morning, combs his hair flat, and shines his shoes: you never can tell.

"That's everyone!" exclaims Louis with a clap that makes Harry jump. He spreads his arms with a beaming grin. "Now, we eat!"

The room explodes again into a din as everyone talks and plates clink, the children all getting served first and Daisy and Probably Phoebe fighting loudly over who gets the crunchiest frankfurter, the one too close to the edge of the dish that's burnt nearly black and crackly on the outside. Lux is the only one who's quiet, Harry thinks, as she nurses contentedly in Lou's lap.

"Hush, the pair of you, I'll cut it in half," Harry hears under the clacking of silverware. "There, now you've both got some. And don't get food on that jacket or you'll have no berries for a week."

Harry doesn't even know whose hand it is that sets his plate in front of him.

There's always a sort of anticipatory hovering feeling before the first bite of any meal he eats undercover. Even though he's cooked this one, he didn't dish it out, and he can't ever _know_ that no one's sussed him out and slipped something in.

Can't let on that he's worried about it, either. Ordinary people who go looking for acceptance from cults probably aren't worried about whether they'll be poisoned.

He takes his fork, digs around through the food a bit – it looks mostly the same as it does at home – and inhales once, deeply, before he digs in.

It tastes different from how he's used to making it, which is only to be expected when he's using different ingredients. He chews very deliberately, and then swallows.

"I like it," declares Daisy. "We should have it every day."

"Not every day," argues her twin. "Then it'd be same old, same old, like Louis' breakfast eggs."

Everyone around the table groans.

"Hey, now," says Louis mildly, "My eggs are groovy."

"Your eggs are boring," says Zayn.

"You're boring, and my eggs are groovy." Louis tips his nose in the air and sniffs. "Better than your eggs, at any rate."

"That is true," says the long-haired woman, whom Harry gathers must be Jesy since he'd taken her cooking duty. She leans across the table to whisper conspiratorially to Harry; he can see straight down her blouse. "Zayn's a fantastic cook except for eggs. Can't do them to save his life. Somehow he gets the yolks hard but whites raw! That just defies eggs!"

"That defies everything," Harry says, frowning. "How's that possible? Seems like spitting in the face of science."

Jesy shrugs, looking impish, and goes back to her casserole.

"They're all lying," Zayn declares, leaning around to look past Perrie Princess. "My eggs are fantastic."

Perrie kisses Zayn's ear a little more intimately than Harry would expect at a dinner table. "Of course they are, babe."

"Of course they are, babe," says Niall from Zayn's other side. Harry can't see him, but Zayn squawks and bats at him a second later.

Harry drags his fork through the corn-and-white-bread on his plate. He doesn't really… he doesn't want weenies, exactly, anymore.

He can nudge those to the side, and if they're the kind of people who don't like wasted food, he can sneak it to one of the little ones. It's easier when you're at a house with a dog.

Louis seems like the sort of person who'd like a dog.

Maybe they sacrifice them, though.

Dogs, and chickens, and things. Which animals are most often sacrificial? Probably chickens. Harry's stomach twists a little at the thought of it being dogs, at the thought of these people who are conversing happily around the table all offering a blood sacrifice to the devil with the same smiles on their faces.

There's a lot of chatter all around him, and he tries his best to keep his ears open. Zayn and Niall, another blond man -- Tim or Tom, something like that -- and Perrie Princess are talking about the Troubles brewing in Belfast, and Harry keeps the majority of his attention on them. Maybe this is an IRA cell. Maybe Niall is Sinn Fein.

Across from them, though, Jesy is trying to explain to Daisy and Phoebe why they'll need to can the rest of the blackberries, rather than eat them tonight.

It's not going down well with either twin. "But we want to eat them now," says Phoebe-Sunshine with a frown. She seems very suspicious of Jesy's motives.

"Yeah, but think how much you'll want them six months from now," Jesy says, and she moves Phoebe-Sunshine's braid away from the food. "And there won't be any for ages and ages unless we take care of what we have now."

"But I want them now." It's the blunt, exasperated tone of a child who doesn't understand why they can't have cake for dinner _and_ for dessert.

Jesy tweaks the end of Phoebe's nose. "You're acting like a little raincloud, Sunshine."

Thunder passes across Sunshine-Phoebe's face before she widens her eyes, pasting on the fakest, toothiest smile that Harry's ever seen on a person so small. "Please, Miss Jesy, why can't we have more blackberries?"

"Because we need to conserve them," Jesy says gently. "Do you know what conservation is?"

Beside Phoebe, Daisy's hand goes shooting into the air. "It's why we can't have more blackberries," she shouts.

Jesy covers her face with both hands and her shoulders wrack with exasperated laughter. Across from them, Harry can't help snorting into his casserole.

The longsuffering look that Daisy's sister has on her face wouldn't be out of place on someone much older.

Finally, Jesy pushes her hair out of her face and rests one hand on each of the twins' heads as she explains, carefully, "Conservation is using every bit of everything you have. Making do and mending. Right? So Daisy, it's very nice that you got that new jacket today, but it'll be your only one for a long time. And with the blackberries, if we eat them all now, that's less fruit we can eat in the winter. And what is fruit?"

"... Yummy?" guesses Phoebe. Her frown has become more thoughtful. "Food?"

"Healthy?" supplies Jesy. "Important? If you don't eat fruit all winter, you'll wither up. Like a raisin."

"I like raisins." Daisy perks up substantially.

Jesy sighs. "You know what? I'm going to hide the blackberries. That's the solution."

That elicits a storm of tiny high-pitched fury, each clamoring to be heard over the other but neither at all happy.

"Hey!" Louis calls down the table. "Why so loud?"

"Miss Jesy's going to hide the blackberries and I want raisins!" exclaims Daisy, red in the face with righteous frustration.

Everyone else quiets around them, looking at either Daisy or Jesy. Lux makes a gurgle, and Lou picks her up to pat her back, shushing her gently.

Harry looks over at Louis. This is the first real clamor he's seen since he arrived, the first thing that's disrupting their false peace. 

Louis raises one eyebrow. "If wishes were fishes you'd live in the sea."

Daisy narrows her eyes at him, her lower lip pooched out as she mulls that over.

Finally, she asks, "Can I be a shark?"

"Not unless you stop whining," Louis says. "Sharks don't whine, dig?"

Daisy huffs quietly. "I dig," she mutters.

"Good girl," Louis praises. "Are you still hungry? Is that why you wanted more berries?"

Daisy sucks her lips into her mouth and then nods. "I ate all mine," she says, showing off her empty plate.

"Alright," Louis announces, "Plate shuffle."

There's a clattering clacking all down the table, and people trading plates back and forth down the sides.

Beside Harry, Perrie Princess takes Harry's plate away from him and portions out a bit, including one of the untouched frankfurters, scooping them onto the plate making its way around the table.

He's glad she has, because otherwise he just would've sat there like an idiot, wondering what the hell 'plate shuffle' meant and whether or not someone was going to give him a dirty look for not knowing.

Eventually, the plate circling the table has another portion of food in its entirety, and Jesy sets it down in front of Daisy. "Better?"

"Yes, thank you." Daisy leans up and hugs Jesy around the neck, one hand curling in the ends of her long hair.

Harry must look as confused as he feels, because the dark-haired woman on Niall's lap, Jade, leans over and says, "If the kids are still hungry after everyone's served, they get a bit of all our portions. Children are the future, of course."

"Oh. Of course." Well, that certainly cleared up a lot of his confusion, and he gives Jade a smile. "Thanks."

That's... probably less nefarious than it could be. Unless it's Louis' way of training the adults to give anything he wants to the children at his command, and training the children to eat it.

His stomach twists again. 

Daisy doesn't seem to have any compunction, though, and digs right in, although she lets Phoebe-Sunshine steal bits from her plate as they bend their blonde heads together and talk in twin-gibberish.

Harry's never met twins before, and it's charming how they speak in their own little language, a few familiar words interspersed with nonsense. He imagines it makes sense to them, anyway.

Once Daisy's plate is empty, and Phoebe-Sunshine's, too, Phoebe looks up across the table and calls, "Louis! Can we get excused?"

Louis smiles warmly, and says, "Magic word, doves?"

Daisy and Phoebe-Sunshine wrap their arms around each other and grin with all of their gappy teeth. " _Please!_ "

With that, Louis laughs, and nods, shooing them with his hands. "Don't get into any trouble," he warns. "I'll know."

Harry swallows.

"We _won't_!" protest the twins before they scamper off, blonde hair and laughter trailing behind them.

 _Everyone_ asks Louis' permission before leaving the table. Not just the kids.

Eventually, only Louis, Zayn, Niall, and Harry remain at the table.

"That was delicious, George. Thank you." Louis leans back in his seat, and props his feet up on the empty corner of the table. "Who's on dishes today, Zayn? I can't remember."

"I think that's me," says Zayn, standing up. 

He holds out his hand for Louis' plate, and as he hands it over, Louis says, "George, you won't have dishes for a week, since you cooked tonight. Cook on, six off, wash on, six off. Keeps everyone equal."

"Sounds fair," agrees Harry. "I'm, er, I'm glad you liked it. 'Specially as I had to modify the original recipe a bit."

"It was good," Louis says. "Food. Filling. Hot. No strange crunchy bits. Groovy in my book."

"Could've done a crunchy topping, but I thought that'd probably be weird textures mixing." Harry sits up in his seat a bit. He doesn't usually get to talk about cooking with people, and even if he's talking about it with a suspected cult leader, at least it's someone.

Louis smiles at him. "You can go on and explore a bit, find a pal. I need to talk to Niall here."

Oh. Well, never mind, then. "Right, sure, of course." Harry slides his chair back from the table, pauses, and coughs. "Erm, I can be excused, then?"

Louis positively beams. George catches on quickly. "Yes, of course."

Harry doesn't go far, though: if Louis _needs to speak with_ someone, then Harry needs to be there, listening. He lingers just outside the kitchen doors, ears perked to the conversation happening at the big rough-hewn table.

There's a quiet sigh, and the sound of footsteps, probably walking around to sit in the seat beside Niall. "Some interesting conversations during dinner, love," says Louis. There's no hint of malice in the voice, but the good cheer there isn't quite natural, either.

"Well, you know, man, it's... Zayn's always got interesting ideas, you know?"

"Don't blow smoke at me, Nialler," Louis replies. His tone's sharper now. "You know better than that."

"Shit." There's a sound of scraping wood, and Niall sighs, chair creaking. "I just, there's only so many times a grown man can go berry-picking, you know?"

"Mm. Getting a bit tart, these days. That's why we're canning them already for the winter." No matter how irrelevant the words Louis is saying are, the way they're paced coming out of his mouth makes Harry shiver. If he had doubts before, he doesn't have them anymore: Louis Tomlinson is a dangerous man.

"I hitched a ride into town," Niall mutters. "I just wanted to watch the news. Things were bad when I left. I wanted to see if they got worse."

"Quite understandable," says Louis. "I imagine you get quite desperate for knowledge of the outside, wanting to know what's happened to your old life now that you've got a new one."

"It's not like I went far," Niall says. "And I didn't spend anything. Didn't have to. I looked like enough of a sadsack the barkeep gave me a pint free."

There's a pause, and Harry really wishes that he could see the look on Louis' face.

"Do you remember when you first came to me?" Louis asks.

"'Course." Niall sounds like he's a bit rapturous at that, probably moon-eyed. "Best day of my life."

"Do you remember what I told you? When you asked me if you could stay? Repeat it back to me now, please."

"Be present where you are," Niall says. "Love the ones you're with."

"Now, tell me, Niall," Louis says. There's a scrape of chair legs scooting across the floor. "Can you be present here if you're somewhere else? Can you love the ones you're with if you are not here with us?"

 _Yes_ , Harry thinks. _Stupid. Of course you can._ He loves his mother, and he loves Gemma, and he's stuck here in this infernal compound.

"I do love all of you." Niall sounds properly chastened. "You know I do. I'm happier here than I've ever been anywhere. I don't ever want to leave."

There's a long minute of silence, but Harry doesn't dare look around the corner. 

"Then _don't leave us again_."

Harry shivers. It feels ten degrees colder in the room even though he's positive the temperature hasn't dropped at all.

"I won't." Niall sounds croaky. "I'm sorry."

A chair scrapes back, and Louis says, "I'm glad." Then his tone softens. "Are your people copasetic?"

"Everything's in order, yeah." Niall coughs, twice. "All gravy, captain."

There's the soft sound of a kiss, and Harry blanches and blushes all at once.

"I really am sorry." Niall's voice has got quieter, and Harry has to close his eyes to listen hard enough to make it out. "Promise, it won't happen again."

"It won't," Louis agrees. "This is the second time, Nialler."

"It's the last time." Another pause, with no sound but the creaking of wood. "I won't let you down."

"It's not just letting me down, love, it's letting _yourself_ down." Louis sounds desperately sad.

It's a load of shit. What a load of shit. Harry's bordering on disgusted.

"I know." And Niall's falling for every bit of it.

"Alright, love. Go jog on. Relieve Zayn of the washing up. It's your job for a week now."

There's a sigh, but other than that, Niall doesn't protest. Of course he doesn't; he's been conditioned to think he deserves this.

A week's punishment? For going to a bar and watching the _news_?

Hell, Harry's not even been here a day and he's wondering how life on the outside is going. Niall's obviously been here a lot longer, and he's got _family_ out there.

Harry's seen the footage of Belfast, even though it isn't his division. Pipe bombs in schools. Molotov cocktails through windows during Sunday mass. It's a war, as genuine as Vietnam had been, and he doesn't blame Niall for wondering – although which side Niall's worrying for, Harry can't guess.

The sound of retreating footsteps clunking toward the kitchen is the next clear noise Harry hears. Niall's off to relieve Zayn, then.

"George!" Harry staggers back as Louis is suddenly nearly stepping on his toes, having whipped around the corner silently in his bare feet.

How does he do that? Harry's _trained_ for this, how did he hear Niall's footsteps but not Louis'.

"Jesus!" Harry exclaims, grabbing his chest. "What are you, ex-Special Ops?"

Louis doesn't smile.

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	2. Chapter Two

"What were you doing out here?" he asks quietly, tilting his head at Harry. "I can only assume that you dropped something, and perhaps needed to linger to pick it up. I can't imagine any other reason you'd need to be standing here outside the door. Certainly not for any sneaky sort of reason, as that'd be quite rude."

Harry immediately looks contrite, head down. "I wasn't trying to be sneaky, I'm just – shy. I don't know anyone."

Louis hums. "I don't like sneaky people, George," he says conversationally. "In future, it's better to head off if I've asked you to head off. I'm sure one of the others would have been happy to sit and have a chat with you for a while."

Louis sets a hand on Harry's shoulder, only for a moment and then it's gone. "I'd really like you to be able to stay here, George. But you might understand, a few of the people here get a bit nervous, around newcomers. Good way to make them twitch, standing outside doorways." He smiles, bright and sunny. "I do like you, though, so this time I'll give you a pass. Just don't do it again."

It's not a speech Harry's never heard before, of course. It's not as though anyone likes to be listened to, especially by the scrawny new guy and especially not if they're doing dirty dealings. Just because Harry hasn’t seen anything yet doesn’t mean that it isn’t there. He’d been in Chicago for two weeks before he could even get the right restaurant name to start spying on Gambino, but Max George’s tip paid off. They always pay off. Max George makes his living spending half his time in prison and the other half getting other guys sent in.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, keeping his eyes on the floor. Another thing he knows: people like Louis like apologetic scrawny guys who show subservience. "I really am sorry, it won't happen again."

One deceptively strong, small hand lands on Harry's shoulder, and Louis' other hand cups Harry's chin like a lover's and tilts his head so that Louis can look right into his eyes. "That's what I like to hear."

Harry wants to be sick. Instead he forces a small, hopeful smile on his face and makes his eyes big. "I, erm, I don't really know where to go. I'm sorry."

Louis' face melts into a smile. He slips one arm around Harry's waist. "Alright, George, let's go find some friends."

Friends. Right. Like he'll find any friends here, in this awful place full of awful people. Maybe some of them had been nice but he can't forget that they aren't _all_ victims. The kids, certainly, but the adults? They should know better. Ignorance is one thing, but at this point it's got to be willful.

Despite all of his training, Harry doesn't really understand how someone can fall prey to a cult. Oh, he knows about being offered salvation and he understands distrust of technology and progress – he can never get the damn ditto machine to work; he's ruined half his ties – but the idea of trusting that defying everything it means to be an American will bring happiness is beyond him. It can't come from people who have seen what it's like in other countries, compared to here. Harry has seen it; Harry has been there. Harry has done things he isn't proud of for a country he is.

There's no way Louis Tomlinson could understand that, and the people he's keeping here are just naive. How can Harry _really_ make friends with anyone he has nothing in common with?

(It's not like he's sending postcards to the Giancanas, anyway. Although doing that would alert them to the lovely fact that he isn't actually dead at the bottom of the Chicago River.)

Still. Making "friends" will be a lot less suspicious than it would be if he didn't make any. There's only so much the shy excuse will cover, and if he's too much of a loner in an environment that's clearly very family oriented, people might get suspicious.

Louis Tomlinson will definitely get suspicious. He's very sharp, and probably a bit mad, and those are the most dangerous people.

His arm is still wrapped around Harry's waist. He's very warm.

"Let's see, who should we find for you to make friends with?" Louis murmurs to himself. He's somehow mastered the art of walking while keeping an arm around someone, which Harry's never managed to do. "I suppose you've already met Lux, but she has quite an early bedtime."

Harry's stomach turns a little at the idea of what Louis' idea of Harry making friends with tiny little Lux might be.

Louis squeezes Harry's waist. "Jesy? She's very friendly. Let's find her."

Jesy had seemed very outgoing at dinner, and she might slip up and give out information that she shouldn't. Harry is all for that. "Cool. I liked her." He really hopes that Louis won't take that as Harry saying that he wants to, like, father children for her. He really doesn't want this to be that sort of cult.

"Everyone here is likable!" Louis says, and he finally sounds pleased and affable again. "That's what it's all about, man, is love."

Oh, Harry just bets. Probably what Louis tells all the poor idiots in order to get them to do what he wants.

"I don't think I'm very loveable," he tests.

The look Louis gives him then nearly makes Harry shudder. "I think you are," is all he says, though, his voice just as light and casual as it's been. "It's all about perception, isn't it? It's very hard to see yourself as others see you."

Harry tries to make his eyes as needy and beseeching as eyes can possibly be. "What d'you see when you look at me?"

To his credit, Louis doesn't immediately spout off a line of idiocy. Too smart for that. Instead, he looks at Harry with that head-tilt, and mulls it over. "I see someone I could come to hold very dear," he says slowly. "Somebody who hasn't been told nearly often enough how good he is. Somebody who wants a place to belong, to be needed as much as he needs other people."

He flashes a smile, quick as anything. "Of course, what do I know? I like you, George. And when I look at you, I see somebody I'd like to get to know better."

Louis leans closer and gives Harry a cheeky wink.

It's surprising how short he is.

"I don't say that about just anyone," Louis murmurs, charm to the marrow. "Just the special ones."

Harry half-smiles, turning to look at the ground again. "I'm nothing special," he mutters.

"I doubt that," Louis says. "I probably shouldn't be the one to say, but Daisy rarely takes to anyone so quickly. She's a bit skittish around strangers, see. If she likes you, then you must be special."

Harry laughs, ducking his head and wrinkling his nose. "Think she liked my jacket a bit more than she liked me, t'be honest."

Louis shakes his head as he pushes open a heavy wooden door. "We're not about materialism. Although I'll admit the jacket might have sweetened the pot."

"Looks better on her than me anyway." Harry smiles at Louis, who still has a hand lingering on Harry's back. "I don't think I suit fringe quite as much."

Louis huffs a quiet laugh, but doesn't say anything else.

The room is dim, but Harry can see clearly enough what's going on inside.

It's nothing unexpected, but it does still startle him to see so many half-clothed or unclothed or barely-clothed bodies all at once on top of each other. Louis, of course, isn't affected at all.

"Jesy!" he calls into the room. "Which one of you's Jesy; I need your face a moment, darling."

A lion's mane of long hair lifts from between Perrie Princess' thighs. "Yes, love? Bit busy!"

"But I've brought you a friend," chirps Louis. "He was loitering all sad outside my door, so I've brought him to you so you can give him a good home."

Jesy licks her lips and gives Perrie a pat on the hip before pushing herself to her feet and stepping over people in a path to Louis and Harry.

Harry swallows.

She's very naked. Very pretty woman, but extremely naked. About as naked as it's possible to be.

Her hair's long enough to afford some modesty, but calling it 'modesty' seems like more of a service than it's worth.

She gives him a long enough looking over that Harry begins to frantically think of everything she could possibly find wrong with the way he looks. Ridiculous. He's only been here a few hours and he's already worried about what these people think.

"Yeah, I'll give him a go," she says, finally. "Bit skinny, more your type than mine, y'know."

Louis clucks his tongue, and if Harry didn't know better than to think Louis could feel normal human emotions, he'd think he were embarrassed.

"Come on, then, love," Jesy says, offering Harry a hand. "Let's get you sorted out."

Harry makes a sort of half-formed noise, but her hand is warm and she doesn't seem like she's bothered or put off or _on_ anything.

Her arms go around his neck and, wow, she has breasts, which he knew but which are suddenly vastly more important than they had been. Louis' arm is _still around his waist_.

Harry has been in tougher situations than this one. A hundred. A thousand.

But he still doesn't actually know what he's meant to... do.

Jesy's very forthright about it, though, and quietly demanding in a much more physical way than he's used to being given commands. She leads him away from Louis, and he likes that, because he was starting to feel a bit warm and gooey and he doesn't want Louis to be touching him while that happens.

Jesy gives him a smile. "You're a bit tweaky, aren't you? Your eyes are popping out like Bugs Bunny."

Harry coughs. His throat is very dry. "I've never really done this before," he says in a whisper. That's safe to admit, isn't it? Does a lot for his naive youth of America thing. "I mean, I've done _this_ ," he adds, gesturing toward her, "but I've never done, like, _this_." His hands flutter in midair.

"What, a love-in?" Jesy laughs, and her hands set to work on the buttons of his shirt. They're gentle and warm and flutter like wings against his collarbone. "I'd never have guessed, you corn-and-weenie-casserole making American youth, you." She's clearly teasing him.

"I know loads of other recipes that'd knock your socks off," he warns. The air in here is so hot and thick that it's doing weird things to his head, and he automatically wants to check that the air isn't thick _with_ anything. "Really experienced recipes."

Jesy just smiles at him, her hair tickling his chest as she kisses his neck. "I bet you do, love."

"I do," he insists. Why is he still talking? Who would still be talking at a time like this?

From somewhere in the corner, there's an elated gasp and a sharp moan, then a giggle from all the surrounding bodies.

He can't even fully see everyone in the room, because it's dark. He recognizes Jesy, and Perrie Princess, but everyone else is just legs or hair or a shadow. Even Perrie has found someone to comfort her in the wake of Jesy's abandonment.

"Are you expecting to do all the work?" Jesy asks lightly. "Just because you made dinner doesn't mean you can lounge about, Georgie Boy."

"Sorry!" Harry nearly yelps. Good lord, it's a good thing he's _supposed_ to be a giant idiot, because he keeps being one accidentally. "Sorry, I'm really sorry," he mutters, one hand slipping to the middle of her back as his knuckles brush her bare hip.

"Sure you've done this before?"

Jesy's unbuttoning his fly. This is not quite what Harry had expected, driving here this morning. Last night he'd slept alone in a motel halfway between Quantico and wherever-the-hell, New Hampshire.

"I have, promise," he murmurs, using his fingers to tip her chin up so he can kiss her. Maybe he wasn't trained specifically for this purpose, but that doesn't mean he can't… rise to the occasion.

He can. And he has. He's got a good face and he knows it; besides, eventually people get suspicious if a man doesn't find a lady friend on his longer UC assignments.

Jesy makes a pleased noise when he deepens the kiss, and he gently bites her lower lip. He's getting rather warm himself and his hand drifts lower, hovering over the curve of her lower back.

It's nice, Jesy brushing the shirt from his shoulders and peeling his ridiculous corduroy trousers from his hips. But Harry is hyperaware of the people all around him, the sounds and the heady sweaty scent of so many people – so much _sex_.

And... he doesn't think Louis has actually left the room. The door never opened again, and there was the faint creak of somebody sitting in a chair.

The possibility of Louis just sitting, watching them, watching him, makes Harry's heart rate skyrocket. He's not oblivious to the way Louis keeps looking at him, admiration and interest, and the thought that Louis might be looking at him that way now is... nerve-wracking.

He's passed tests before, and this feels like a test. It's like that dream he used to have at the Academy where he'd turn up for an exam and accidentally be naked, except for this test he is _actually naked in front of everyone in the room_.

He's got to pass this one with flying colors. Right. Right. He bends his knees a little and gets his hands underneath Jesy's thighs, because he only has a few smooth moves and this seems to be a time to pull some out. He heaves Jesy up and back, and tilts his face to give her a kiss she'll remember for a long time if he's got anything to say about it.

Of course, as soon as he pulls away to take a breath of the damp, cloying air, Jesy laughs and says, "Ooh, well, someone's getting impressive."

He's never been around this much sex all at once. He's had sex; he's had quite a bit of sex if he's being honest, but this is like every sexual encounter he's ever had happening all at once in a barn while a psychopath watches.

And quite a few sexual experiences he's never had. He doesn't even know how some of these people's legs are making the shapes they're making, unless he's confusing whose legs are whose.

Entirely possible, really. And now he's getting distracted again.

"I try," he mutters, burying his face in her neck. She smells like clean sweat, and he likes it so much that he draws his tongue along the line of her throat.

It's been – it's not like Harry doesn't like sex. He's never found someone who moves the Earth for him.

The floor seems to be the place to be, so after a little fumbling Harry manages to lower both of them to the ground. He's never had sex on a floor. He's had sex in beds, and on a couch, once, and another time against a wall. But never on a floor.

It's very hard, the floor. Bad for the knees.

He says so, and Jesy laughs again and pats his cheek. "Little city boy, you'll get used to it soon enough. You can get good leverage on the floor."

"Can you?" he asks, curiously rolling his hips against hers. A spark shoots up in his stomach, hot and electric, because he could feel her before but now he can really, really feel her, and she feels amazing.

"Mmm." Jesy hums, and then quick as a wink she's flipped him so that he's pinned to the floor beneath her. It's like he's never done a day of hand-to-hand practice in his life; although it's generally less sexual.

All his breath feels like it's just been sucked out of him, and it takes him a moment to remember how to breathe again.

She's radiant from this angle. Harry's – it's just new that she isn't leaving on a blouse and a bra and keeping her hair tied up in a bun. And she isn’t starved-skinny and broken, someone Harry wraps up in his own shirt and orders a coffee, rather than abuse like all of the other men on the job.

Instead, Jesy’s hair is floating around her face, and she has this self-satisfied look on her face that Harry probably shouldn't find as attractive as he does. They're both sweaty and nothing about this should be good but somehow everything is.

Lying on his back, Harry can pretend better that he doesn't feel Louis' eyes trained on him, too.

"You're tense," says Jesy, her hands rubbing small circles on Harry's chest. "You should loosen up. What's there to be so stressed about?"

Next to them, Perrie gasps, her back arching as she pushes her fingers into Leigh-Anne's hair.

There's everything to be tense about, but he can't give that away. He smiles up at her. "Not tense. Excited."

She laughs and pats his cheek. "Well you just stay right there and keep that excitement warm for me, I'll be back." She hops up, unashamed, and Harry watches the way her breasts bounce as she saunters away.

He barely has time to wonder why before she's back with a foil packet in hand, settling down over his hips.

"I was here when Lou had Lux," she says, tearing it open. "Majestic and beautiful and everything, but I still don't want one."

 _Well, that's nice_ , Harry thinks with vague alarm. "You don't?" he asks, mostly to have something to say. He curves his hands around her hips, and they fit nicely, so he leaves them there.

It's a relief to know that he's not breeding stock, he supposes. That would've been hard to explain to Liam and Nick when he gets home.

As it is, he thinks he might leave this out of his report. It doesn't seem relevant and, well, Nick won't let it go until he's dead.

Jesy rubs light fingers over the back of Harry's hand, then slides his palm away from her hips and up, up over her ribs to cup one heavy breast. "Sure you're just excited? It's okay to be nervous, if you are. It's honest."

Maybe she likes them to be nervous. Harry tries it on, shrugging a careful shoulder. "It's been a while," he admits. Not particularly untrue, even. It has been a while, for more reasons than one.

She coos, sympathetic, and urges him to rub the pad of his thumb over her nipple. "We're gonna fix that."

She's solid, and warm, and it's not unpleasant to be underneath her. "Cool," he says appreciatively. He leans up to press a kiss between her collarbones, and then one just below that.

"That's it," she says, and then she's rolling the condom down the length of his cock, stroking her hand to help plump him up. "You can have whatever you want."

Harry automatically slides his hands back down to her hips. He's never had sex like this before, with the girl on top. It seems unstable, like she might fall over. Should he keep his hands there? She probably is capable of keeping her balance.

In the corner of the room, Lou seems to be balancing alright with that blond guy, Tom or Fred or Thor or something, so it must be possible.

Harry moves his hands again to cover Jesy’s breasts. They're warm, and her nipples in his palms are drawn tight. He pinches one lightly and she inhales, so he can't be that awful. Everyone else moves and breathes and groans around them.

Or, he realizes, glancing around when Jesy's eyes close, not quite everyone.

Louis is still watching them. His eyes aren't moving, not even making an effort to look around, just staring straight at Harry and Jesy. That's what it looks like, anyway. He's too far away for Harry to get a good look at his eyes, but his head's turned in their direction.

And he isn't naked. He hasn't even taken his shirt off.

His hands are curled on the arms of his chair, fingers digging into his palms. Somehow, Harry would like it more if he was actually getting himself off. It'd be less unsettling.

While he's distracted watching Louis watching him, Jesy takes matters into her own hands and lifts herself up, palms braced on Harry's chest, to slide down onto his cock.

He nearly chokes. The surprise of it, the way she doesn't pause at all, just goes for it, and the feeling of her tight and wet and warm around him, he's surprised he doesn't just keel over on the spot.

"Ooh!" he squeaks, "Hello!"

She laughs at him. "Hi," she replies. She moves her hips from side to side. "You're quite big, aren't you?"

"Am I?" Harry feels like he might swallow his own tongue. Is she talking? During _sex_?

Is that allowed?

"You are," she says, so it must be. Or maybe like everything else here, there's just no care taken for how things are supposed to be. "Bigger than the others I've had, anyway."

"Hey!" huffs Niall, from somewhere around Harry's head. "I heard that!"

"And it's true," she shoots back without pausing, an easy smile on her face. "You'll have to start eating your vegetables."

Harry looks over his shoulder, confusion writ all over his face. Niall and Zayn are curled like commas behind him, and _Jesy is talking to them_.

Nothing about any of this makes sense. He might _need_ to put it in his report.

And he can't quite – Zayn, he can see Zayn moving – he can see where Zayn is moving in and out of Niall, just the same as Jesy is still bouncing on Harry, and it's... that -- the sight of them together shouldn't be making him harder, hotter, but it is.

He knows why; of course he does. It's just that it shouldn't be, and he's done his best since he was a teenager to make sure that he wasn't in a situation where it would. Of course, that's all out the window now.

It's just that he can see the pink flush on Niall's chest.

He can see the way he keeps biting his lip, even as he and Jesy continue to exchange banter, the way Niall's hand keeps dipping behind him to squeeze Zayn's hip, the way he's so obviously enjoying himself.

There are black tattoos crossing Zayn's skin, and there's muscle, and dark hair, and all of the places where Jesy is lush and soft, Zayn looks hard. Sharp.

They look really good together, Zayn and Niall. They both look good in general, even separately, even when he'd seen them with all their clothes on.

If he were Louis, he'd be staring at them.

But when he looks back, takes just a glance from underneath his eyelashes, Louis hasn't moved his gaze. He's still looking straight at Harry and Jesy. No, no he's not, he's just looking at Harry. Jesy leans back, the line of her stomach long and smooth, her hair cascading down her back, and Louis doesn't even twitch.

"Come on, Georgie," Jesy urges, rocking on Harry's cock, tweaking his nipples roughly enough to make him squeak in surprise again.

Why's he even looking at Louis? Maybe Louis is some sort of weirdo voyeur pervert, but Harry's just fine having a beautiful woman on his lap, thank-you-very-much. He doesn't need – he doesn't do that. He doesn't do anything about that.

He'll be gone within the month, anyway, and Louis Tomlinson will be in jail and Harry won't have to deal with his creepy blue eyes staring at Harry like he's an ice cream cone on a hot day, and Louis just wants a lick.

He grinds his hips up and Jesy makes a pleased humming sound, her fingertips playing with the hair at the base of his neck. She has long fingernails, so there's a hint of a scratch there, and Harry likes it.

It's a bit like having sex upside down, having her on top. But he can get the hang of thrusting up towards her. It's not rocket science.

At any rate, as long as he ignores that Louis is even in the room, and doesn't pay attention to the sounds of Zayn and Niall so close to them, it's just like any other time he's had sex with a woman.

Except that Jesy is unabashed in her nakedness and loud with her appreciation, all long guttural groans that shouldn't sound feminine, but do.

He likes it more, he thinks. Even if he could never do that, be so loud about it, it suits Jesy.

She isn't all manicured, clipped edges, like a plain white wall, either, and maybe Harry should be more charitable to the partners he's bad before, but they were all a bit... boring.

There's nothing boring about Jesy. She commands interest in the way she moves and sounds and reacts.

There's still a purple stain of blackberry on her fingertips when she shoves two into Harry's mouth for him to suck on, like she's noticed that he can't quite stop looking back at Niall's leaky-tipped cock.

He moans. He can't help it. Her fingers taste like soap but still with that faint tang of fruit, and he's never – but he's thought about – but he doesn't let himself think about – and her fingertips press down on his tongue, so he sucks on them, twists his tongue around and between them.

"That's it," she murmurs, "Just keep on like that."

Harry closes his eyes, lets her stroke his chin with her thumb while she moves her fingers. His jaw begins to ache in a pleasant way.

It's easier, like this, to let it feel good.

Sometimes (all the time) he gets too preoccupied with convincing himself that he likes women that he doesn't actually get to enjoy sex at all. This is nothing like that. This is actually good, actually close to what he's heard sex can be.

All around the room, people are making the same sorts of wet, wanting sounds that Jesy is. The smells of sweat and salt and something else, earthy and tang, are heavy in the air.

Harry can see why people might want to do this. You don't generally get much of a sense of community when it's just you and the other person.

Not that he's ever thought, exactly, about the idea of community. And sex shouldn't even be communal. There was probably something funny in the blackberries.

Maybe that's how they get you. They give you mind-control blackberries.

That wouldn't surprise him in the slightest. He's slightly worried that there's going to be a large amount of drugs in everything he consumes while he's here.

Even if he's cooked it. 

But if being drugged means feeling like _this_ , then maybe it isn't so bad.

That's definitely definitely not going in his report.

Jesy growls over him, grinding down hard as she starts to tighten up, fluttering around him.

Harry breathes in and his exhale is shaky, his mouth still full of Jesy's fingers, and he's sucked them free of any taste other than skin and his own spit but it's still somehow one of the best things to ever be in his mouth.

"Just stay right there." Jesy moves like she's on a mission, pushing herself hard on Harry's cock.

Harry keeps himself as still as he can, trembling, his hips jerking up in tiny increments because he can't stop them. She knows what she wants and she's going to take it, and he doesn't mind at all.

The noise she makes when she comes makes Harry want to laugh, but he can't. That's rude; you can't laugh at someone you're having sex with.

Even if Jesy's laughed at him a few times. But Harry doesn't blame her for that. He's just not a very sexy person, and he doesn't imagine George would be, either.

Next to them, though, Perrie on one side and Niall on the other both start giggling.

"Jesy's had a good night!" Perrie teases, reaching over to poke Jesy's bum.

Jesy grumbles at them, batting her hands at Perrie. "Leave me be, I hate you," she says.

And then she leans down and kisses Perrie right on the mouth, even while Harry's still hard inside her.

That doesn't make him less hard. He's expecting it to, waits for it to happen, but it doesn't.

When Perrie pulls back, she bites Jesy's lip softly and murmurs, "Think you forgot your boy, there."

"Hard to," Jesy quips with another side-to-side shift. Harry has to muffle a groan.

Jesy looks back down at Harry and beams at him. "Think you can make me go again before you do?"

He gives her a smile. "Probably," he says, and it's more of an admission than cockiness over his stamina. It's just that it might take him a bit longer to get there, when it's, well. When it is.

Jesy raises her eyebrows like it's a challenge. "Alright, then, Georgie boy, show me what you got."

He wraps his arms around her, pushing off with the ball of one foot and smiling to himself when she squeals. It's not that he doesn't like it with her on top, just, he's better at what he's used to, he's guessing.

He hasn't really had any complaints before. Not with the actual physical technique.

Once he's adjusted, he pushes back in with one roll of his hips, bracing himself over her so that he doesn't completely ruin it by collapsing once he's finished.

Jesy smiles, head tipped back and eyes shut, her wild hair a halo around her head.

It's times like this Harry regrets needing to be hip to current fashion trends for this job. His hair's in his eyes, and he can't really see, so he flips it back and completely through no fault of his own, by terrible accidental chance, locks eyes with Louis.

He knows he should look down at Jesy beneath him, but... he can't quite manage it.

There's something almost hypnotic about Louis. He doesn't look away from Harry either, not that Harry expected him to. What he does do is lean slightly forward in his chair.

He doesn't say a word. He's still fully clothed. He just looks back, expressionless. And Harry feels even more naked.

It's automatic, the movements of sex, all in the hips. Harry should do more, would do more if he could figure out how the hell to look away from Louis' eyes.

They're very blue. They're really very blue.

And they're inscrutable. Harry has looked into the eyes of bombers that gave away more of their intention.

He hadn't been frightened of Louis. Frightened for the children, yes, and frightened that he might not do the job right. But Louis hadn't intimidated him.

He does now. Somehow Harry needs to show him what he's made of. This _is_ his initiation test.

He's going to pass it.

Harry narrows his eyes, keeping them on Louis as he slides a hand down Jesy's stomach. He slides his knees farther apart for a better center of gravity.

He knows how all of the bits and pieces work. He knows how to play this part better than any other role he's been given.

And he won't even look away. He wants Louis to know that he's fully aware this is a test. He wants Louis to watch him pass it.

Jesy is already wet and slippery from her first orgasm when he slides a finger over to find her clit.

She hisses, pushing up against him. He'd like to look at her, to see the look on her face right now, even just to check that she's happy with how he's doing. But he can't look, because that means he'll get marked down.

The way she's grabbing at his ass, trying to haul him in deeper, will have to suffice.

Everything's so wet, his fingers sliding slippery against her whenever he rubs and she feels really good, amazing, exactly how she should, and if she was receiving marks along with him she'd get the highest grade there is.

But Louis isn't looking at Jesy.

Harry wonders then, if he were a woman like her, what his test would be.

He doesn't think he wants to know.

But this, he can do, and he knows Louis must approve. Harry isn't so modest to think that he's not a prime specimen of the modern man.

Harry speeds up his rhythm, just a little, just enough that to make Jesy really feel it.

She arches her back under him, and groans that silly grunting groan again. Louis' lips twitch as everyone around them giggles again, and he bestows Harry a smile.

It's the smile that does it. That smile, a real hey-look-you've done-well smile, that tiny nod of approval. He's passed, he thinks.

And Louis' face looks good with a smile.

Harry's orgasm surprises him, a shock down in the pit of his stomach that makes stars bust behind his eyes, fireworks in his head.

It feels nice to have Jesy running her fingers through his hair, cooing after 'George' while he comes down.

He's not looking at Louis anymore. Doesn't need to be, now that he's passed, but he also doesn't feel quite capable of lifting his head yet. He can still feel Louis' eyes on him.

There's a moment where he entertains the thought of looking back, of just asking if he's seen his fill yet, but Harry falls asleep before it's anything but a passing fancy.

It's hours before he wakes, still wrapped around Jesy and with Perrie Princess pressed against his back. They're all asleep in the same room, piled like puppies. It's so dark and so quiet out here in the country that the night feels creepy.

There's not a peep. When Harry looks up, Louis isn't in his chair anymore.

Of course not. He's probably got a big king-sized bed somewhere, instead of these pads of blanket on the floor.

Or –

Harry sits up, careful not to wake the bodies around him, and searches for his jeans.

He hasn't seen the whole house, obviously, but the twins aren't in this room (and thank heavens for that, of course). He doesn't know where they are. But Louis does.

And tiny little Lux, too, who seems like she'll follow anyone who gives her a smile and a blackberry.

Louis wouldn't even need a blackberry. He'd just tell her to go with him and she would because she doesn't know any better. It's a trusting age, hers.

Harry tip-toes out of the room and opens the door to a pitch-black hallway.

Damn. It makes sense that they wouldn't keep the lights on all the time, but now he'll need to search in the dark. Turning on a light that wasn't on before will draw attention.

Well, he knows the kitchen is on this floor. And this room. The front room, with the board games.

How many floors were there? It's a big house, so there are two or three. Might be an attic. They passed a few rooms other than this one on the way here.

Where would Louis keep the kids?

Not down here, near the... debauchery room. Harry can’t call it a ‘bedroom’ since there are no beds. The children are most likely be up a floor or two.

Harry stretches his arms out wide enough his fingertips can trail on either side of the corridor, and starts moving forward.

The floorboards creak lightly beneath his feet, so he gravitates closer to one wall, where they're less likely to make noise. Wall, wall, wall, doorframe.

There's a sudden burst of brilliant starlight: a sunroom, or a parlor, or an old greenhouse. It's all glassed in, and above him, the moon and stars light up enough that Harry has to blink in the sudden brightness.

Not a bedroom. It's beautiful, though. He wonders what it looks like during the day.

It's almost romantic at night. It's probably lovely in winter, with the snow falling.

Harry rubs his eyes. He's wasting time.

He'll be gone by winter.

He moves on through the house, shifting his weight every time the floor seems like it could make noise, keeping a look out for rooms and popping his head in every time he passes one. There are less rooms than he'd expect in a house this big. Much more hallway than one might think.

Almost none of the rooms have doors, though, which helps. There's a room full of fabric, old clothes, a sewing machine and a washtub; there's a room full of books and fingerpaint on the wall.

There's one room which is empty but splattered with every shade of paint imaginable, and little painted designs coming up from the floor.

There are a lot of painted daisies, and Harry figures he must be getting closer.

The last staircase isn’t tall enough to reach to the top of the house as he saw it from the outside, so he imagines there must be some sort of attic.

These stairs are the creakiest of all, and he winces as he takes the last of them two-at-a-go to try to quiet his steps. So much for the element of surprise.

If Louis is upstairs, he'll know Harry's coming. Still, it won't give him time to get out of the twins' room if he is in there, at least not without Harry seeing him.

Harry closes his eyes for a moment before opening the trapdoor. He's seen things, but there are things he never wants to see.

This is his job, though, and sometimes it's the worst job in the world.

He exhales, and opens the trapdoor.

It lowers down into a set of stairs, not very sturdy, but sturdy enough for a set of kids the twins' age. He can just picture them playing rock, paper, scissors to see who gets to open the door.

He checks over his shoulder, just to make sure that Louis Tomlinson isn't behind him, and heads up.

When he finally hoists himself up into the actual room, it's... not quite what he was expecting.

Mainly, Louis is nowhere to be seen.

Instead, there's a crib with Lux sleeping in it, fingers in her mouth, and two little trundle beds: one empty, and the other full of both twins.

He sits on the floor at the edge of the trapdoor and stares. Part of him, most of him, truly expected Louis to be up here, doing unspeakable things.

And now the question is raised: if Louis Tomlinson isn't up here, and he isn't anywhere downstairs, then where is he?

Does he have a secret hideout like a cartoon supervillain? It seems incredibly hypocritical for him to admonish Niall for leaving if he does it himself.

Then again, cult leader.

Still, Louis is clearly not here, and if feels seedy to be in the twins' bedroom if he's not attempting to stop crimes.

He's glad that they're all sleeping soundly. That's some measure of relief.

He slides himself down out the trapdoor and gives the hallway a look to make sure he hasn't been seen. It takes an immense amount of care to get the trapdoor back up without it creaking.

The house is easy enough to navigate in the dark now that his eyes have adjusted.

Slow and steady, down the hallway, down the stairs, and then just back down the hallway and he can do his best to get a few more hours sleep in the big sex room.

When he's passing the moon-bright glass parlor, though, he jumps, startled, at the silhouette of Louis standing there, hands in his back pockets, like he's been there all along.

He's almost positive he doesn't make a noise, but Louis turns, anyway, the moonlight casting luminescence over his skin. He makes a striking figure.

"George," he greets, blinking. "Can I help you?"

This, he wasn't expecting. Confrontation, yes, not polite inquiries. "Um, he says, scratching his chest. "Bathroom?"

Louis nods. "One floor up. The water only comes out cold at night."

"S'alright. Only need to take a leak." Harry gives him a smile. It's easier once he knows Louis isn't, at least not tonight, a monster. "Thanks."

Louis nods, and Harry turns to go, but then –

"Odd that you walked right past it, coming down those stairs."

Don't tense up. Don't tense up. Harry laughs. "Yeah, man, hard to see in the dark like this. Didn't wanna turn a light on and wake anyone up."

Louis cocks his head. "You'll get used to it. Out in the cities, all that extra light poisons nighttime, and it makes you go a bit blind to how things really are. We're natural out here in how we live."

"I like it." Harry looks over his shoulder at Louis, and leans against the wall beside the door. "It's really different from -- from where I was."

"Good." Louis sounds genuinely pleased. "You don't ever have to worry about where you were, ever again, you know. If you don't want. You can be whoever you really are with us."

And there he goes again, talking all creepy. Harry can't wait until he can get out of this place. He gives Louis another smile, as dazzling and naive as he can manage when he's actually tired and disgusted. "Thanks, man. That means a lot to me."

Louis just nods, and then he finally moves, yawning with a great stretch over his head. "Alright. Go on and piss and go back to sleep. Sun's rising in a few hours and it'll be time for chores."

"Chores?" Harry asks curiously. "Like what kind of chores?"

"Breakfast duty, there's repairs around the house, always. Be nice to get hot water any time of day, for one. Minding Lux. If you're handy with numbers, we could use a math teacher for the twins."

"I'm handy with numbers," Harry admits. "I should be able to do math for, what, seven year olds?"

"Yeah, but Daisy can already do multiplication," Louis says. He sounds proud.

"I did love my times tables in school. We'd probably get along, then." Harry wishes that it was his job to do times tables.

"Good." Louis nods. "Zayn handles the reading and Niall does a bit of chemistry, science, the like, but you can swap in for math after you repair the shutters on the front room."

"Okay." That's not at all bad. "I'm not really very handy, though. I'm a bit clumsy sometimes."

"We'll see. Go on and do your business and get back to sleep, George. It's your first busy day with the family tomorrow."

The family. He misses his mother and Robin and Gemma. This is not his family. "Right, of course." Another smile. Smiles will get you everywhere. "Thank you, again."

Louis steps closer and rests a hand on Harry's shoulder. Then he disappears, his bare feet silent on the creaky floor. He doesn't move toward the big room, where everyone else is. He goes the other way down the hall.

Harry pauses, watching him disappear into the dark. And then he does go to the bathroom, because otherwise Louis will notice that he didn't go back up the stairs.

There's something very enticing about Louis, and he wants to figure out what it is. Maybe then he'll understand how he came to convince so many otherwise intelligent people to follow him in his crusade.

When Harry slips back into the big room, the spot where he'd been sleeping between Perrie and Jesy is still empty. There's a pile of blankets in the corner, and he grabs one even though it's not cold enough to need it.

He expects it to take longer for him to get back to sleep than it does. Instead, he drops off almost as soon as he closes his eyes.

It's warm, in the space between two sleeping people. Jesy clings like she's a limpet into his warmth as soon as Harry lies down, and it's more comfortable than it should be.

Princess Perrie curls up against his back as well, and he really really did not need that blanket when he's got about seven of them living and breathing around him.

Harry has always relished having space to himself.

But somehow, this he doesn't mind as much.

It's easy to let the dark and the silence lull him back to sleep. Easy enough that in the pit of his stomach, Harry knows that he should be suspicious.

But he isn't.

His next awakening isn't as gradual as the first, and he nearly takes down the person prodding him until he remembers, undercover, don't shoot or try to shoot anybody.

"What's happening?" he mutters, leaving the edge of sleep-roughness in his voice. He's not actually tired, already alert and listening for how many people are in the room.

"Breakfast call," answers a curly-haired woman Harry vaguely recalls seeing with her face between Perrie Princess' thighs last night. "If you're not at the table, you're not eating 'til lunch."

"Okay," says Harry. That makes sense. He sits up and stretches, reaching his arms over his head. "Thank you for waking me," he adds.

She bobs her head, already walking out of the room. Harry can smell breakfast already, and it's clear that he only got this warning because he's new.

That's all right. It'll be easier to wake up when he hasn't been snooping around in the middle of the night for people who are up to no good.

Although that's sort of why he's here. Harry groans as he sits, unused to sleeping on a hard floor. There's probably woodgrain pressed into his cheek, like the mark of a folded pillow.

How can anyone sleep on wood and still be as flexible as some of the people he saw in here last night? Maybe they don't sleep on the floor all the time. The house is certainly big enough for there to be other bedrooms, and he'd seen a few empty ones during his quest.

Louis certainly didn't sleep on the floor.

There's still no proof that he doesn't sleep with anyone else, either.

Maybe they all rotate. 

Harry's back cracks a few times as he lifts his arms to pull on the same shirt as he'd worn the day before, and he makes his way down the hall to the kitchen.

Everyone's already there, including Louis, who gives Harry a grin, even if he doesn't seem all that awake.

"There he is," Louis says, and pulls out the empty chair right beside his own. "Thought maybe you'd snuck off in the night."

"Nope. Just sleeping." Harry rubs the back of his hair. He could use a shower. He doesn't know if these people do shower, actually. They smell alright.

"Well, take a seat, sleepyhead," Louis says. It's funny how charming he can be. He seems almost cuddly, like a declawed cat.

There's a seat free between Perrie and Niall, so Harry quickly shifts himself into that one. He's trying not to draw attention, which would be easy if Louis would just stop giving him the attention he's trying to avoid.

As soon as he's in the chair, Louis' hand is on his shoulder, giving him an indulgent pat. "Good man. There are still a few blackberries left, I think, unless the monsters have eaten them all."

"Hey!" shouts Daisy, her lips purple.

"We're not monsters!" adds Phoebe-Sunshine, crossing her arms.

"No!" agrees Lux, blackberry smeared all over her forehead.

"Did you hear that?" asks Louis, an expression of fake curiosity on his face. "Thought I heard a monster talking. Where'd that come from? Somebody hide the blackberries."

"No!" howl both twins as the bowl is passed over their heads, making its way to Harry.

He plucks a few out, nodding gratefully. "Thank you," he says, popping one into his mouth. It squishes beautifully, fruity with a twist of pleasant sourness.

Louis takes a blackberry, too, his fingers brushing Harry's. "Would have had more blackberries, if it weren't for those meddling kids." He's grinning, though, as he says it.

"Everybody have their chores for today?" asks Louis, loud enough to address the whole table.

Everyone nods, and not even the little ones complain at this. They've busied themselves with a pot of honey, anyway.

"If you get too sticky, you'll need another bath," Louis comments, though he doesn't look too concerned. "I talked to you about chores, right?" he says to Harry, leaning right up against the back of Niall's chair.

"Yeah, something about shutters?" Harry takes a slice of toast. It's a bit lumpy, like it was cut before the bread had cooled, and it's full of whole grains. He's never had whole grains in his bread before.

"Right, we have broken shutters. And if you could mind Lux for a little while, that'd be great. She doesn't cause much fuss, just needs someone to make sure she doesn't fall and hurt herself trying to catch a butterfly." The fond smile on Louis' face makes Harry think that this is something that's happened before.

"Sure, I don't mind," Harry says. "And something about math?"

"No!" howls a twin again. "I hate math!"

At the same time, the other twin pumps a fist and cheers, "Hooray! Numbers!"

Louis laughs to himself. "Yeah, math. You can talk to Niall about that sometime." He flicks the back of Niall's head. "See where he's left off with them."

"Er, probably the beginning," Niall says. He still has that thick Irish accent, and there's a wooden cane rested against the back of his chair.

Harry doesn't ask. He's still too new here to know whether or not it's alright, and from what Zayn said yesterday, if probably isn't, anyway. He can fish later.

It probably has something to do with Niall's interest in watching the news of the Troubles.

Maybe Harry’s stumbled onto something bigger than even Max George had thought. "Are you not good at math?" he asks as he eats another blackberry. They really are very good.

"Not good at teaching, I reckon," Niall says. "And not good at saying 'no' to that one." He points at the math-hating twin.

Said twin draws herself up proudly and grins. He can see Louis' genes in her then, in the similar way they both smile.

Louis tries to hide his own smile in some toast as he says, "Don't you grin, little Daisy. You need to learn math. It's important."

"Why?" she asks in a much more aggressive manner than Harry would expect from a six year old. She tears the crust off of her own toast and gives it to Phoebe-Sunshine, who promptly begins to devour it. "I'm gonna be a flower when I grow up. Don't need math to be a flower."

"You are going to be so much more than a flower," is all Louis says, and the toast feels dry in Harry's mouth.

It's a real effort to get it down then, when it begins to feel and taste like wet cement.

It would be easier to do this job if there weren't kids.

"I'm pretty good at math," Harry interjects. He had to be to get into the program. Probably not a good idea to tell them just how good at it he is, but he can definitely teach it to a pair of kids. "I think I can handle it."

"I'm pretty good, too," Phoebe-Sunshine challenges. She's chewing on the discarded torus of a blackberry.

He smiles at her. "Maybe you'll end up teaching me a few things."

She lowers her eyelids suspiciously, and she makes such a picture of Louis in miniature that it's a bit startling. Maybe _she's_ the cult leader.

Ridiculous. Ridiculous? He'll keep an extra eye on her just in case. You never can know about these things.

He'd been caught unaware before, and he has the scars to prove it.

"Everyone finished?" Louis asks, raising his voice again. He commands attention, the whole clan’s eyes drawn to him when he begins to speak.

There’s a flurry of nodding even though across the table, Perrie sneaks a last slice of toast into the pocket of her long, flowing skirt.

"All right. Off you go, meet back here for lunch." He claps twice and everyone scatters, a few people to the back door, some down the hall. Niall yawns, grabbing the cane behind his chair and easing himself up.

Harry is watching Niall hobble off to the pantry – apparently on cooking duties for the day – when a hand claps his shoulder. He looks up to find Tom, the blond who isn't Niall, grinning at him.

"Thought I'd keep you company while you do the shutters, maybe lend a hand or two." He jerks a thumb behind him. "Lou and Luxie thought they'd enjoy a little sunshine, too."

Lou bounces Lux on her hip. "Say hello to George, Luxie."

She screech-laughs and claps, which Harry deciphers as 'hello' in the language of young children.

Harry smiles, giving her a little wave. At least there's one innocent person in this compound.

"Sure, the more the merrier, right?" It'll be good to have more than one person helping him put things together. Woodwork wasn't on his exams. He'd much rather do math.

Plus, unless he has a gun or a knife in his hand, Harry is fairly clumsy. In Chicago, he was in one bar fight that ended with a broken bottle in his hand, and that was mostly an accident that happened to look threatening at a fortuitous moment.

They trek out around the side of the house, and the problem is immediately obvious when they come across the broken shutter. It's hanging off on one side on the top, and the bottom looks like it's only just attached.

The rest of the windows have no shutters at all, which explains why it was so bright with the arrival of sunrise.

"Well," says Harry, hands on his hips as he gives it a look. "This should be interesting."

"It's just a simple hinge job," Tom says. "Unless you're handy enough to jimmy up some blinds?"

"Not very handy at all," replies Harry. "I'm afraid I'll be more of a hindrance than anything, actually."

Tom just shakes his head, laughing, and picks up a toolbox.

The toolbox might actually be more intimidating than everything else he's encountered since he's been here. He took a shop class in high school, but that was forever ago now.

He'd been jealous of Gemma's projects from Home Economics, he remembers now; he'd rather make casseroles and pillows than a birdhouse.

Or shutters.

"How do we do this?" he asks straight out. With direction, it might not be so bad.

"Well, we need to get lumber from the stacks, trim it to size, and attach it to the window frame with hinges."

Or not. Or this will be just as difficult as he thought it might. He hopes he doesn't look as terrified at the prospect as he feels he does, but with the look on Tom's face, he imagines that's a pipe dream.

"Right. Alright. Trimming! With a – saw?"

"Yeah, with a circular saw." He sounds very amused. "That's out back, though, if you want to follow me?"

Harry does not particularly want to follow a cultist with a saw, but he will because he is a highly trained agent and he can handle a few shutters.

Tom throws open the doors to a shed that smells like sawdust and mildew. Inside are more toolboxes, a big table, and the aforementioned circular saw.

"Um," says Harry, scratching the back of his neck. It's stuffy in the shed, August sunshine beating down on the countryside. "So. That does the... does the cutting, then."

"That does the cutting," Tom confirms. "It's a good thing we already measured the last time the shutters got screwed up. Means we don't have to measure this time."

"Do they get screwed up a lot?" Harry asks, watching as Tom pulls off his shirt to get to work.

Tom shrugs in response. "Been here a while. Everything gets screwed up sometimes if you're in one place long enough."

Interesting.

"Here," he says, offering Harry a sheet of crinkled paper. "If you read off the measurements there, I can mark 'em down on the wood and then we can get cutting."

Harry sneezes, then starts reading, watching as Tom shows him how to mark the wood and cut the pieces.

"So," he asks, because Tom seems to have a handle on things, "how did you, you know, meet Louis?"

Tom doesn't seem as thrown by the question as Harry might've expected. "Met him up in Canada, few years ago. Through Lou. Lou had a few mutual friends with him."

Harry frowns, looking down at the top of Tom's head where he's bent over to sand an edge smooth. There's only one thing that Canada means, anymore. "You dodge?"

"Yup." Doesn't even hesitate. "Can't fight in a war I don't believe in for a country I don't think is doing the right thing."

Harry chews the inside of his cheek. What would George say?

"That makes sense," he says slowly. "Guess I never thought about it that way."

"From how Zayn tells it, I made the right choice," Tom mutters. There's a great load of noise as he cuts another plank.

"Oh, was he-?" Harry cuts himself off. Display reluctance to talk behind someone's back while revealing enough about what you want to know to make it obvious.

"Were you?" Tom counters. "If you were, you know it's his story to tell. If you weren't, now I've told you."

"Sorry," Harry mutters. Apparently there's no way to do his job without somebody getting angry with him. That's fine, as he'll be leaving within the month, but he is naturally a people-pleaser and he doesn't like when people chastise him.

Especially people who are brainwashed into cheerfulness. In the main, it seems like it should be harder to upset them.

Tom stacks wood in front of him. "You get those and I'll get the other half."

Harry hangs his head in bashful apology, looking up at Tom through his too-long bangs. "Sorry. For prying. I just don't know anyone yet."

"It's alright, man. Natural to want to know more about the world around you." He gives Harry a smile that looks sincere enough. "Nobody expects you to know the way things work right away."

Bingo.

"How _do_ things work here?" Harry pretends to fumble his boards. It's a bit too easy. He might have actually fumbled them.

"Mostly you just don't pry into peoples' lives before they came here." Tom hefts his own boards easily. "A lot of the time, that's why they came here in the first place, and nobody likes to be reminded of bad stuff in their past."

Well, that's helpful. "Okay. But I mean... am I on the building crew now? Will I have to learn to use the round saw?"

"Circle saw."

"Circle saw?"

"Nah, there's not really set jobs for people. I guess if you're a lot better at one thing, maybe, like Jesy does the food a lot, and I tend to do the housework more often than not. But we switch around." Tom grunts and heaves his wood down onto the ground in front of the broken shutter. He's much more open than anybody else Harry's talked to.

Then again, Harry hasn't really done much... talking, yet.

"I'm good at like, typical school things, math and grammar and stuff." I can shoot a target dead center from fifty feet. "I'm pretty good with kids." My finished case rate is highest in my unit. "I'm not a bad cook."

"You'll bounce around until you find a fit," Tom says. "I'm guessing. Louis makes the assignments."

"He's kind of in charge, right?" Harry asks. He pauses at points throughout the sentence in the hope that he won't be admonished again.

"Oh, he's totally in charge," agrees Tom. "Louis is... amazing. I've never met anyone like him."

"Neither have I," Harry says after a moment of fiddling with his fingers. That's true enough. He's met murderers, thieves, people who claimed to be gods. But he's never met anyone quite like Louis.

Although he can't rule out Louis claiming to be God, just because he hasn't yet.

"Louis is one of a kind." Tom's smiling. "Don't know what I would've done if he hadn't invited me to come here. Probably saved my life."

"And Lou was already here?"

Tom looks over his shoulder where Lou is doing some mending in the grass, and Lux is sat on her behind playing with dandelions. "No, we came together. We'd been trying to have a baby, you know, and it's a hard world out there for little ones. Not safe."

"And you thought it'd be safer here?" Harry doesn't mean to sound incredulous, but. Really.

"It is safer here, friend." Tom's voice is just as jovial as it was on the surface, but underneath there's a bit of a warning. "The most dangerous thing my kid's got to deal with is a bee sting, maybe one of the twins getting too rowdy. Doesn't have to worry that Daddy's going off to fight in the war and he might not come home."

Harry frowns. "War's over. Why stay?"

"Why leave?" he counters. "We're happy here. Lux is happy here. There's enough people with different skillsets here that she'll be able to learn, soon as she can talk. I like the people. I like the place."

"But what about money?"

If they're thieves or drug dealers, then Harry's set. And _he_ can go.

Tom looks at Harry with a confused frown. "What do we need money for?"

"For... things?" Harry asks. "Clothes or food. College."

"We've got clothes. We've got food. Everyone here's either too old for college or too young." Tom gives him an odd sort of smile. "You're real used to living a certain sort of way, aren't you?"

That takes Harry aback, just a bit, because in a way he is, of course, he lives... well, he lives the American way. But he also is used to being a chameleon, living the way the people around him live.

"There's more than one way to be happy." Tom leans up to take the rest of the hanging shutter off. "Just because our way's nonconventional doesn't make it wrong."

Harry thinks of Gemma, in her big house in a suburb of Indianapolis. Her kids go to public school, recite the Pledge of Allegiance every day. Her husband didn't serve, but he also didn't _dodge_. He just had flat feet.

Maybe there's more than one way to be happy, but there's also more than one way to be wrong.

"But how will you know..." Harry trails off, unsure what they might be unsure of, here at the compound. Currency exchange rates? Current events?

"We know what we need to know. In here's in here and out there's out there. Can you hold this while I screw it on in?" Tom asks around the screwdriver held in his mouth.

"Sure." Harry holds up the shutter while Tom fits it for a hinge into the windowframe. Even though Harry doesn't consider himself to be anything short of 'fairly physically fit' and likes to think that he's more in the range of 'athletic if endearingly clumsy,' after four windows, it's hard work to hold the wood over his head for long spans of time as the hinges are screwed in.

"If you drop that on me, I'm gonna be really pissed off," Tom says when he notices Harry's shaking arms. "If you need to take a breather, just say so and we can sit down a while."

"It's just hot out here," Harry says, blowing fringe out of his eyes with a frustrated snort like an orca surfacing. Damn hippie hair.

"That it is," Tom agrees, swiping sweat off his own forehead. "Wouldn't mind a sit down myself. But we only have one left, if you feel up to it?"

Harry pauses, looking around. Louis Tomlinson is still nowhere to be seen; Lou has taken little Lux and retreated to the shade of a big, leafy tree with the rest of her mending.

"I can do it," he declares. "It's just one, and then I don't have to use my arms for a little while, right?"

"Not if you don't want to," Tom agrees. "You'll just be chasing after Luxie for a bit until lunch."

"Chasing is mostly legs, I think." Harry shoves his hair back again, and then, frustrated, just claws his t-shirt off. It doesn't make much difference, but at least he doesn't have damp material clinging to his back.

Tom looks Harry up and down, taking in all of his tattoos. Most of them are cover-up jobs from marks in Chicago. "You serve, then?"

Harry looks down at himself. "Um, no. I was supposed to, went to a service academy and everything, but I didn’t."

His time at school doesn't have much to do with his tattoos, but Tom doesn't know that and it's a good way to explain them away.

"I take it you aren't exactly a conscientious objector, though?" Tom asks. He looks over his shoulder at Harry. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want. Whatever color your discharge papers."

Harry looks down. He doesn't say that if he'd gone on, he would've had to lie in order to serve. He doesn't say that his discharge slip would've been blue. But even though he doesn't say, he's pretty sure Tom can tell. Somehow, even as good as Harry's gotten at hiding it, Tom can tell.

"Well, it... there wasn't an issue," he mutters.

"Right, course not." Tom dusts his hands off, sawdust and sweat. "Like I said, none of my business."

He claps Harry on the back. "Good job, George. Next time there's some handyman work, you'll use the tools and I'll stand around flexing like I'm the David."

"And I'll drop the round saw on my foot and chop off all my toes." Harry laughs. His arms ache and he feels prickly and sweaty and all-around uncomfortable, but at least it's done.

"Circle saw!" Tom corrects, laughing. "And if you do, eh, you can get around with one foot. Niall manages."

He doesn't ask. He's learned his lesson, for the most part. "Right, right, circle saw. Circle, round, same thing."

"No! Are you sure you can teach math? A circle is flat. Round is... round is round."

"Yeah, a circle is round." Harry draws one in the air. "See? Round."

Tom slaps a hand over his eyes. "I'll tell Luxie to teach you shapes, George."

"I do like shapes. Round shapes are the best." Harry grins at him. "Do you want me to help carry stuff back to the shed?"

"Nah, that's alright. You can go on over and get acquainted with Lou and Lux. She won't be shy, but she can be fussy."

"We've got something in common, then." Harry considers offering a hand to shake, then decides these aren't handshaking people. "Thanks for showing me how everything works."

And he was right about the lack of handshaking: Tom just reaches out and pulls Harry into a full-on hug.

They're shirtless. And sweaty. And most importantly, shirtless.

And they're both men. They're both grown men who are not related to each other. And Harry did his fair share of kisses on the cheek in greeting back in Chicago, but this is different.

Carefully, very carefully, he eases his arms around Tom in return, some part of him waiting to get kicked or punched or laughed at.

It's...

It's different from Jesy.

There are no breasts at all, but there is the scritch of chest hair, and Tom's not bad looking, and Harry's never hugged a shirtless man before, but he's thought about it an awful lot, and. And it's really, really nice.

He doesn't want to hold on too long.

But he also doesn't... really want to let go.

How long is too long? How long before Tom starts to get uncomfortable? How long before he actually does get punched in the face?

He steps back with a jolt and runs both hands through his hair, trying to push the sweaty strands off his face. This hair will be the death of him.

"Thanks for helping out, friend." Tom doesn't hit him. He doesn't even glare. He smiles at Harry and hoists the toolbox back up.

When he disappears, Harry stands stock-still for a minute, watching him walk back to the shed. A breeze finally cuts through the heavy summer air, ruffling through the mop on Harry's head.

"Hi?" Tiny arms wrap around one of Harry's legs.

He looks down and Lux's giant eyes are peering up at him, one hand clamped around her own pigtail.

Crouching, he smiles at her. "Hi," he replies. "Remember me? I'm George."

"Uppy?" Lux asks. Apparently names aren't a sticking point with her.

His arms still hurt, but she's really cute, and probably only weighs about half what one of those wooden panels weighed.

"Okay, yeah, uppy." Harry lifts her, and she immediately leans up to kiss his cheek. "You're awfully trusting, aren't you?"

She laughs and nestles herself into a comfortable position, resting against his chest.

"Yeah, she's lucky, isn't she?" Lou comes up and kisses the back of Lux's head, then smiles at Harry. "Everyone in her world's always been kind to her."

"Must be nice." Harry gives her back a rub and she burbles happily. "It's not like that out there. Where I'm from, anyway."

"That doesn't have to matter anymore," Lou says, smiling. "If you don't want it to."

"I'm learning that more the more I'm here, I think." Or at least he's learning what they've learned.

Louis Tomlinson might be charming, and he might be handsome, but he can't change human nature. Soon enough, Lux will learn that people are cruel. Tom will learn that you can't run away from your duties. And Harry will go back to the real world.

But he can let them have their misconceptions for now. It won't matter much longer.

As long as their misconceptions don't involve massacring innocent good citizens, Harry has to let them play at peace.

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	3. Chapter Three

Harry's never met a child before who's so happy to be held by anyone other than her parents, but Lux just takes a big fistful of Harry's curls and tugs at it like reins, grinning happily.

"She's taken to you quickly," Tom notices upon his return from the shed. "Usually doesn't like strangers as much. Took her a while to get used to Niall."

"Well, she was teeny," Lou huffs. "She's a big old girl now."

"Big!" exclaims Lux, smashing her hands together. She doesn't say anything else, just bounces for a moment and then flops back against Harry.

Lou brushes Lux's hair back behind one small ear. "Big and tuckered out. It's a hot one today. George, would you like to help us make some blackberry shrub?"

Lux's eyes swivel to look beseechingly at Harry.

He can't say no to the kid. He can already tell it's going to be a problem. "What do you think, Miss Lux?" he asks her. "D'you think we should make some shrub?"

She whistles an _mmmm!_ through her nose, so Harry smiles at Lou and lets her lead him back across the yard to the farmhouse. Jesy and Leigh-Anne are painting the shutters that Harry and Tom just built; Perrie had all of the blankets from the house spread out hanging over tree trunks, and she led the twins in a rousing exercise of beating them clean with rackets. They’re all back inside now, and the grass beneath the hanging rugs is frosted with gray dust.

He doesn't know where Zayn or Niall or Louis are. That sort of concerns him.

Of everyone here, they seem the most... there's just something about them. The way they look at each other, and the way had Louis chastised Niall the night before.

He just feels like he needs to know where they are more than he needs to know where the others are. Tom and Lou are nice, but he gets the feeling they aren't involved in too many of the bigger decisions, no matter what crap Louis feeds them.

And the girls, well. Harry knows what Louis probably keeps all of the women here for.

He has to suppress a shudder, thinking about what he'd expected to walk in on last night. He can't wait until he gets to take this creepy bastard down.

"Hello!" Lux pats his cheek a few times. "Down!"

"Oh, okay, down it is," Harry responds. He carefully squats to set Lux on her feet, even though she's wiggling around trying to get down from the moment she says the word.

She scampers off ahead of them towards the house, and spends a long minute hauling herself up the first stair on the porch.

"Why, hello, little Luxie!" Louis emerges from the front door.

Harry can't help the way his attention is immediately drawn. Louis is why he's here, after all. He should be noticing Louis as often as he can.

Louis looks relaxed and happy, smooth as usual, as he lifts Lux from her perch on the second stair and tosses her, shrieking, into the air.

Harry's muscles all lock up as his instincts shriek at him to get the child away from the maniacal cult leader, but Louis just catches her instead of letting her drop and crack her skull on the floor in front of her parents.

Lux applauds enthusiastically and throws her arms around Louis' neck. "Again."

"Nah, save it for later, it'll feel more special if you don't use up all your Air Louis tickets all at once." Louis cradles the back of her head, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "How're we doing?" he asks the room at large. "Shutters done?"

He looks over at Harry, laser-eyed.

"Yeah, they're done," he answers, blinking rapidly and looking down, then up again. He's still not wearing a shirt.

At first he'd thought that Louis didn't care, but when he looks closer, Louis is keeping his eyes so intently on Harry's that it really can't be anything other than deliberately avoiding looking at other parts of him.

Harry swallows.

Louis nods, and his face breaks all in one piece into that broad, white, fanged smile. "Glad to hear it! Now maybe we can sleep a bit past sunrise."

"Yeah, hopefully." Harry's really thinking he might shave his head once he gets back home, as he shoves his hair yet again out of his face. "Happy to help."

Louis nods, pleased, and kisses Lux's head before starting down the steps. He pauses just long enough to kiss Lou, too, and Harry frowns.

He doesn't say anything. It's just more of what he already suspected, and he files it away in his brain for perusal later when he's under less scrutiny.

"Slub?" Lux asks, patting Harry's cheeks.

"Sure," he agrees. "Let's get some shrub."

She agrees in a quiet bird-like coo. An odd child, but then, who could expect anything else if this is the environment she's grown up in?

When they make their way into the kitchen, it answers the question of where Niall is, sitting at the table with the twins, poring over their papers of chickenscrawl and eating a sandwich that appears to be breakfast's sweet bread stuffed with broccoli.

"Yeah, looks about right," he says through a mouthful, looking up and nodding when the others enter the room. "Better than I was at your age."

"Hooray!" shouts Phoebe-Sunshine.

"Can I finish my pone now?" asks Daisy.

"Your what?" Harry asks.

"My pone. I'm good at rhyming."

"Oh." Lou is laughing at him, Harry's pretty sure. "I'm sure you are. I'm not too bad at rhyming, myself." Maybe not in a poetry sense, but then again, he hasn't written a poem since junior year of English.

Daisy looks very impressed. "Can you rhyme right now?"

All of the words that rhyme promptly fall out of Harry's head. "Uh, yeah. Like, right now rhymes with brown cow."

Phoebe looks less impressed. "Rhyme 'purple.'"

"Oh, nothing rhymes with purple. Or orange, or silver. Nothing in English, anyway." Harry is happy to have remembered that little fact from middle school.

"I know a rhyme for purple," says Louis, coming into the kitchen with Zayn and Perrie Princess in tow. "The Nialler won't stop fussing. His face is turning purple. Won't anything make him feel better?" He pauses dramatically. "I bet a burp'll."

People around the room break into snickers. "A contraction's not really a word, though, is it?" Harry asks. "Creative, though."

"Rules," Louis says, and waves the word away. He leans down to kiss both of the twins' foreheads. "Arbitrary."

Harry has no doubt that to a man like Louis, the only difference between a rule and a law is scale. He wonders: how many laws has Louis Tomlinson broken?

"Lunch crew's here," Louis announces. "So everyone else needs to clear out for the afternoon chores until they ring the bell."

Harry knows what those words mean independently of each other, but all together he just can't make sense of it. Does he have an afternoon chore? Is he watching Lux? Is he clearing out?

Harry looks over at Louis. "Erm, Lou and Lux and I were going to make some blackberry shrub, since it's so hot outside?"

"Sounds delicious. It's scorching, isn't it?" Louis' eyes finally flick once down Harry's torso and back up. "Especially when you're working hard."

The way he looks at Harry makes him uncomfortable, like there's a bomb buzzing away inside his chest, ticking right next to his heart to hold tension until it explodes.

It's stupid. This whole thing's stupid. He wants to go home, and not be holding a baby while a cult leader checks him out.

"Um, yeah," he mutters. "I was a bit useless. Tom's the one who did all the real work."

"You're being too hard on yourself, I'm sure." Louis shoots him a small smile. "You don't strike me as the type of person to let somebody else do all the work."

Harry shrugs, then sets down a desperately wriggling Lux, who zooms over to clamber onto Daisy's lap.

"On with it!" Louis claps his hands twice, and almost everyone in the room either scrambles to leave it or gets busy doing something other than standing there. While they move, Harry just stands, watching as everyone drops what they're doing to obey Louis Tomlinson.

It's a little bit terrifying, to be quite honest.

Niall hobbles off with his cane, leaving the twins staring up at Harry with great anticipation in their eyes. Louis does the same.

"Blackberry shrub?" Harry suggests weakly.

"I can make that," Louis says. "You ought to take a look at the twins' math, since that will be your afternoon position for the time being."

"Okay. I can do that." He pauses, then adds, "Thank you."

Louis smiles softly and rests his hand on Harry's shoulder. It's a small inferno, skin against skin.

His skin crawls, or tingles.

"You don't have to say that all the time, you know," says Louis. "You don't need to thank people unless they've done something worthy of being thanked."

"Oh. Right," says Harry. "Um, thank you. I mean, not – shit."

Louis laughs and pats his shoulder once before talking his hand away. "I know what you mean."

Sure he does, the smooth bastard. Always understands everyone, always understands everything, and if you don't understand it, he'll explain it to you.

Harry's met that kind of person. Harry hates that kind of person.

"Okay, math, right?" He smiles, ducking his head.

"That's the ticket," Louis agrees. "Math. Terrifying but important." He gives Daisy a Look. "Right, Daisy?"

She gives him a Look right back. "I guess," she says, though it sounds like she doesn't think so at all.

Louis crosses behind her and tickles her soundly around the ribs, making her screech. "That's too right, you guess."

Harry has to fight the urge to snatch the small child away from Louis. It's instinct, to want to protect her from him.

But the way she looks up at Louis, it's like there are moons in her eyes, or like Louis is the sun and all she can do is reflect his brightness. It's clear that, for whatever ills he may have, she adores him.

Everyone here adores Louis. He knows he's only been here a day, but every person he's met seems to genuinely like him. He'd been expecting mindless servitude, blind infatuation. He's not sure what to think now.

Of course, it's only been a day, and even though they work with a smile, Harry hadn't seen _Louis_ outside the house doing manual labor.

He might just be better at brainwashing people than the others Harry's met. So far nobody here looks dead behind their eyes.

But it's just not natural to do what someone else wants you to do. That's no way to live.

Louis doesn't have him fooled. No matter how many smiles he has stored up, how many jokes he makes, how many words of false hope he can give people. He's not going to get the chance to take Harry down.

Harry knows his duties.

But for now, his duty is to teach children’s math.

Daisy is actually better than he expected once she calms down. She never quite loses her scowl, but Phoebe-Sunshine's enthusiasm more than makes up for it.

They're surprisingly darling, Harry thinks, for being raised by a cult and being related to Louis Tomlinson.

Good learners, too. Harry's met agents four times their age who could learn how to shut up and listen once in a goddamn while.

While they're working, people shuffle in and out of the kitchen. Louis, Lou, and Lux make a big pitcher of softly fuchsia blackberry shrub and Louis takes it outside to bring around to the workers. (Harry pretends to need the restroom and follows him, because, well. He doesn't trust Louis handing around anything to drink.)

Nobody keels over or anything. They just thank Louis, and have a drink, and look less thirsty.

Louis turns with a sweet smile and offers a glass to Harry. "Shrub? Heaven on a day like today."

He'd love to decline it, but he can't, not without seeming suspicious. "Yeah, sure, thanks."

He doesn't look away from Louis' eyes as he takes a drink. He isn't afraid of Louis, and he won't defer, either.

It tastes like blackberries and tangy sour, cool and sweet and refreshing. It tastes like every homemade shrub his mother's ever given him.

Harry nods. "Thanks."

"No problem. You might want to get back to the monsters, though; if they're left alone too long, they might decide to do an art project without supervision."

"Oh, no." Harry drains the rest of the glass, and swipes a hand over his lips. "Sorry, I'll get right back."

When he does, though, Daisy and Phoebe are happily playing a game of Miss Merry Mack with Lux as Lou braids one twin's hair and Perrie does the other's.

"Oh, there he is!" Perrie exclaims on Harry's entrance. "There's our derelict."

"Hi, sorry I left them." Harry plops right down in a chair, to show he's not leaving again. "I didn't mean to impose on your time."

"It's never an imposition to spend time with my babies," Perrie says, giving Phoebe's hair a little tug. "They were catching me up on all your gossip."

"Do I have gossip?" Harry asks, faintly surprised. He wouldn't have thought he'd been here long enough to have gossip. Even gossip to a seven year old.

Daisy and Phoebe-Sunshine meet eyes and nod, giggling.

"Can I know what it is?" Harry leans closer and lowers his voice to impart an air of secrecy.

Daisy looks at Phoebe-Sunshine and says something in gobbledygook gibberish.

Phoebe-Sunshine considers something, and then replies in the same babbling language.

Harry looks to Perrie and Lou. "Uh?"

"It's their language," Lou explains.

"It's an idioglossia," Perrie explains. "They were doing some linguistic studies of it in California before I left Stanford and came here." She pets Phoebe-Sunshine's hair fondly.

"Did you go to Stanford?" Harry asks, impressed. Since she brought it up, he doesn't think it's rude to inquire further. If it is, well, he'll get his third telling-off in the last 24 hours.

"For a while," Perrie says, and doesn't elaborate further. "Hated the weather out there. I'm too pale for it. It's nice here, isn't it?"

"It is nice here. Little bit colder at night than what I'm used to," Harry admits. "Windier, too."

"I like it," Daisy pipes. "We fly kites!"

"Do you? I flew kites when I was younger." Harry hasn't flown a kite in years. The last time was probably when he was eleven and it got tangled in a tree and he cried.

Daisy nods. "Last time, though, I, um, I let Luxie hold the string, and she let go to clap, and the kite flew and flew and flew on the roof!"

"Louis had to climb up and get it down!" Phoebe-Sunshine adds. "It was scary."

"All the way on the roof?" Harry lets out a low whistle. "That's high."

Both twins nod. Lux looks up from her place on the floor and quickly nods, too, her face very serious.

"I don't like heights very much. I don't know if I'd be able to climb up onto the roof." Harry doesn't have a phobia, or anything; he just prefers to have two feet on the ground.

"Me, neither," says Daisy.

"I like them," says Phoebe stubbornly.

"Neither of you should really be on the roof, I don't think," Lou cuts in. "Not until you're much, much older."

"Me!" yells Lux, popping up to her feet and bouncing to be picked up.

"Yeah, not you either," Lou hoists Lux into the air and stands, balancing Lux on her hip. "Not until you're fifty."

Lux trumpets and wriggles backwards so she can smile at Harry, and he has to smile back.

He's glad that the children are at least happy as far as he can tell. Dealing with traumatized kids is never his favorite way to spend a day, leaves him feeling disgusting all over and in severe need of a shower that doesn't end up helping.

It's only happened once or twice before – not usually in his purview – but he'll never forget that den in Detroit.

"We're off. Little miss needs a b-a-t-h." Lou bounces Lux gently. "See you for lunch?"

Daisy and Phoebe both bounce up to kiss Lux's face before they'll let them leave.

And then it's just Perrie and Harry. And the twins. Harry's not been alone with many of the people here. There are still a few he hasn't talked to.

"So," he says. "Are you helping with math?"

"I could, if you wanted." She's smiling, taking the braid out of Daisy's hair and redoing it more tightly. "I'm no great shakes at it. I've just finished my chores and Zaynie's not done with his so I thought I'd say hello."

Zaynie. Zayn, she'd called him her Zayn at dinner last night, but then –

But Niall. Harry had seen; he wouldn't imagine something like that. He isn't... like that. He'd _seen_ Zayn with Niall. How can Perrie call him hers?

She doesn't seem ashamed, or in any way secretive about it. Harry doesn't understand.

He can't ask about it in front of the twins, either. He probably shouldn't ask about it ever.

But he wants to know.

He might be here long enough to find out. It's only been a day. He can't expect miracles.

He can tell though that his face is pink when he averts his eyes from Perrie and looks back at the paper full of chickenscratch numbers and carefully-rendered smiling daisies.

"I wanted to see how you were settling in. It can be a big change, being here. It was for me, anyway." Perrie fastens Daisy's hair with a thick macaroni-patterned strand of macrame yarn. "New place, new people always coming through. I've been here since the beginning but I know new people always feel a little strange."

She kisses all three of their heads right in a row as she stands to begin preparing lunch for everyone.

"It is different," says Harry slowly. He doesn't want to open up all at once, no runaway would do that. "I like it. I like the people, everyone's been nice who I've met."

"Good." Perrie smiles at him and fluffs his hair. "If you need anything, just come to me, alright?"

"Okay." He coughs, his face still warm. "Thank you."

"Of course. Come help me with lunch," she invites. "I like having someone around to bend their ear while I cook."

Harry is pleasantly surprised to see that they really do plan to eat three times a day, like keeping his people healthy is a concern of Tomlinson's.

That's something, at least. Of course, he might just want to keep them healthy in order to keep their genes healthy, but health is health.

"We've had grains and fruit today," Perrie explains, "We need protein and fats for lunch. There should be today's eggs in the larder, if you could get those, love."

Concerned with food groups as well, apparently. Harry muses on that as he nods, following Perrie's directions. That's more healthy than _he_ is when he's at home, and he was very close to eating only fruit for about a year.

It had been necessary, though, after eighteen months undercover eating pasta and cheese and Chicken Vesuvio every day. He'd had quite a little gut going when he got back to Quantico after Chicago.

It's looking like that won't be a problem while he's here. He'd been worried that he'd be subsisting on mostly grass and maybe beggars’ scraps, but so far the food has pleasantly surprised him.

He finds a little nestle of speckled brown eggs in a basket in the dry, dark pantry and brings them to Perrie.

He's never seen eggs like this except in birds' nests.

Eggs, in Harry's world, come white from the market.

"That's lovely, duck." Perrie smiles like the sun and gives him a kiss on the cheek. She reminds him a little of his nan, but prettier and younger and she smells less like Rose Milk.

There is a distinctly unreal quality to Perrie.

"How was your sleep last night?" Perrie asks, taking the eggs from him. He doesn't know what she's making. 

"Um," he says, and doesn't know whether she means actual-sleep or what had happened before everyone fell asleep. "It was good."

"That's swell," she enthuses. "Sometimes I have trouble sleeping when it's starting to get colder out like it is now, but it's easy when you've got so many blankets around you, isn't it?" She giggles.

"Sure," Harry says. "It was more comfortable than I thought. I have a bad back."

"I think Leigh might have a tonic somewhere that could help that," says Perrie thoughtfully. "I know Lou had back problems when she was laid up with Luxie."

Harry doesn't want some kind of drugged-up cultish tonic, thanks. "That's alright. I can tough it out."

"You don't look like the type, love," Perrie says, and actually pinches his cheek. "You look like you'd fall over in a stiff breeze."

Well, that withers his ego a little. "I'm tough," he mutters. He sounds churlish but that works with the petulant runaway background he's building.

He can't exactly say that he's still got pieces of bullet rattling around in his trapezius and that's why his back's poorly, and he can't say that he's slept in cells and the lower decks of runners' boats and the terrible, terrible beds back at St. John's.

What he _can_ say is something pitiful, something to make him seem vulnerable, trustworthy, pathetic. People tell things to the people they pity.

He sticks out his chin, and it just slips out: "I've always had to be tough."

Perrie doesn't pinch his cheek this time. She just looks at him, an egg in her hand.

"Not here," she says after a moment. "You don't have to be anything other than yourself here."

That's a start. Harry ducks his head, acts bashful, grateful, and murmurs, "What can I do to help?"

"You can help me crack the eggs into the bowl!" Perrie nudges the basket toward Harry, and then the bowl. "All of them go in. We're feeding a lot of mouths."

Harry turns every once in a while to check that the twins are still doing their schoolwork, and he's impressed whenever they are. Lux is scrawling away on a chalkboard of her own, tongue between her four stubby teeth in concentration.

He notices that Perrie hums under her breath while she works. He doesn't recognize the song, but it sounds nice and soothing, and he finds his shoulders relaxing the longer he helps.

"You have a nice voice."

She startles, nearly dropping her whisk and then looking around her comically, as though there's anyone else in the kitchen he could be talking to.

"It's nothing, really," she demurs. "You should hear Zaynie."

"I think it's nice," Harry insists. He obviously hasn't heard ‘Zaynie’ singing, but whether he's good or not doesn't mean Perrie is or isn't.

"Me, too!" pipes Daisy from the table.

"See?" Harry says with a smile. It's hard not to smile at Daisy with her berry-stained fingertips and her furrowed brow. "Now you know it's true."

Perrie just shakes her head, but she looks pleased with herself as she grates a squash into the bowl of egg.

She starts humming again, too, though her cheeks are flushed.

The meal comes together more easily than Harry was expecting, considering how many people they're cooking for. As the kitchen heats up, people begin to trickle in, offering smiles and settling in their seats around the table.

He's not sure, really, what it is, some sort of egg pancake with grated potato and herbs, but when they get to the table and he's dished out a slice, it's surprisingly good. It tastes healthy, like it'll get him through more yard work until dinner.

He's not sitting near the people he knows. Well – ‘knows’ is a strong word. He's not sitting near the people he's more used to: Perrie or Niall or Louis.

Or Jesy. She sits down at the end of the table right by Louis, and Harry _notices_ that. She's his bait, the one he gifts people to make them stay. And that's unfair.

The girl he's sitting next to now was introduced to him as Jade, and she's very small. So far that's her defining characteristic. She's just really little, and she has a bow in her hair.

It's quite a lot of hair, although not as much as Jesy, and Jade's face is mostly swallowed up by her glasses' dark frames. There's a scar running down the side of her face that’s turned that cheek into a patchwork and the eye milky-white and blind. Harry seems to be the only one at the table who needs to work to keep from staring.

They're all used to it, he imagines. He won't ask about it, knows better by now, but he's curious to know whether it came from someone else sitting at this table.

The family doesn’t linger over the meal like they had the night before; it's an exercise in brisk efficiency before everyone gets back to their jobs around the compound.

Harry's not sure what he's meant to do next, but as it turns out, it doesn't really matter. About a minute after Jade's left the table, she returns, neat papers on a clipboard with a pen in her hand.

"Hiya," she greets Harry. "I'm Jade, but we met last night. I do the inventory, and you cooked supper so you need to help me tally it off."

"Oh, uh, alright." That's actually fascinating. He hadn't anticipated that they'd keep such a good account.

She smiles at him. It makes the scar seem less noticeable.

"Well, we used canned weenies," he says. "And corn."

"Oh, no," she says, and pushes a sheath of papers over to him. "You're going through the list and marking things off, not just dictating. I'm not your secretary."

"I didn't think you were," he protests. It's not his fault her instructions weren't very clear. "I've never done this before. I'm sorry."

"It's alright." It sounds true enough. "What you have there is the list of canned, and I've got the list of perishable. You can dictate my half."

"Okay. I can do that, yeah." Harry takes the pen that she offers him. "Thank you."

Once they've both marked off yesterday's dinner and today's lunch, Jade stands, her long patchwork skirt swishing over her bare feet. "Now we have to take account of the pantry, as sometimes some people – and I'm not naming Niall – help themselves at night."

It's a joke and clearly meant as one, so Harry laughs, ducking his head down. "Not supposed to do that, I'm guessing?"

Jade shrugs one shoulder. "Not particularly, but we don't want anyone starving on our watch, either. If you can replace it, you can eat it."

"How do you replace things?" Harry asks with a frown. If they're not supposed to leave, he's not sure how they'd manage to replenish the supply.

Jade isn't facing him, and her voice gives Harry nothing. "We have our ways."

Well, that's not useful information. Apart from how it sounds pretty sinister coming from someone who looks like she'd come up to maybe his shoulder, it doesn't tell him a thing.

"Er," Harry says, "Alright. Well, then I suppose I can't eat anything for a while, is that it?"

Jade looks over her shoulder, frowning. "We have three meals a day. If you get hungry in the middle of the night, just eat what you brought with you."

"But I didn't bring anything with me."

She pulls up short and Harry nearly runs into her.

Jade turns to look up at him, and Harry can't ignore the milky blankness of one eye when it's trained right on him. "You didn't bring anything with you."

"I didn't bring anything with me," he repeats. She thinks he's lying, that much is clear.

"How'd you get here?" she asks. "Just walk, did you?"

Oh, good, a story he has prepared. He shifts awkwardly on his feet. "I, uh, I hitched my way as far as I could, then walked the rest."

"What did you give your drivers?" Jade presses.

He makes himself blush, rubbing one of his arms and looking down. He coughs.

"I didn't have time to – get anything before I left," he says, and he stammers in exactly the right places.

It's the right thing to say. Jade backs off, and her eyes look less like they're glaring at him.

"Alright, well, you can always go out to the orchards and pick apples," she says. "Or you can sow a garden. Every bit does help."

"Yeah, okay. I can do that. Both of those things." Harry clears his throat. "Did everyone else bring things when they came?"

"Most of them," Jade replies. She doesn't seem open to more questions. "The ones who came first brought everything they had."

Harry nods. "Right, yeah, of course. And everyone gives back equally?" He pauses. "What about Louis? Can he eat whatever he wants?"

Jade looks at him for a moment with a look so dark that he almost takes a step back, and then she's back to ordinary slight disdain. "Like I said, if you can replace it, you can take it. Everyone replaces whatever they take."

"What about the kids?" Harry tries to sound like he's only curious.

"They get three meals a day, and they're asleep by a little after dark. Sometimes they have snacks with their homework." She frowns at him. "You're awfully curious about peoples' eating habits." There's a note of warning there.

"I've put my foot in my mouth a few times already," Harry says sheepishly. "I'd rather learn everything all at once so I don't embarrass anyone again."

"Just keep in mind that if someone wants you to know something, they'll tell you themself." Jade shrugs. "Don't go prodding. Rude."

"Right," Harry says, and he hides behind his hair for the rest of their way to the larder.

"I don't think Niall's been into it yet," Jade says critically, looking over the collection of foodstuffs in the larder. "He'll probably try for it later."

"Right." Harry is careful to keep sounding well-chastised, not bored. It's a fine line. "What do you want me to do?"

She hands him the clipboard. "Just tally what I say to tally. It's boring but it's got to be done."

"Okay," Harry agrees. "I'm sorry, if what I said before was... if it bothered you. I didn't mean to."

"Not much bothers me nowadays." Jade hitches her skirt up in order to kneel down on the floor and inspect the bottom shelf. "Certainly not an honest mistake."

She looks back at Harry with her good eye, then says, "Five cans Oscar Meyer weiners."

It's not as boring a job as one might think. Repetitive, yes, and simple, but it's relaxing.

It ends with, "One box Libby's Sloppy Joe," and Harry knows better than to ask why they haven't alphabetized the pantry. They're cultists. It probably hasn't crossed their minds.

"All finished." By the end of the list, Jade's tone has cooled to a brisk wind rather than an arctic gale. "Thanks for your help," she says to him.

"Sure, you're welcome," Harry says. He shuffles his feet as Jade sweeps her long hair up off her neck, sticky in the summer heat, and moves to leave. "Where do I go?"

She shrugs. "I'm not your keeper. You can go where you'd like as long as you've finished your jobs for the day."

"I don't know my next job," Harry says honestly. "Is there a chart or something I can check?"

"Louis tells you your jobs in the morning." She looks at him with what seems a mixture of cautious confusion and irritation. "If you've finished them, you don't have anymore, or he'd've given you another."

"Oh." Louis hadn't really talked to Harry yet. Maybe he's just meant to mind Lux until Louis can suss out what Harry can best do for him.

Jade nods, like that sorts it, and sweeps away, her bow bobbing as she walks. For someone so little, she packs an awful lot of presence into the way she holds herself.

When she turns the corner to leave, Harry averts his eyes a moment too late for her not to notice that he's peering for another look at the scar that took one of her eyes.

As long as his standing job is to look after Lux, he should probably have her within his eyesight at least. 'Looking after' generally implies actual looking.

Last he'd heard, Lou took her upstairs for a bath. The stairs are the same direction Jade's gone, but Harry hangs back a moment so Jade won't think he's following her. It strikes him, in a quiet sort of insistence, that she may well be here because she's all too used to being followed too closely by a strange man.

He doesn't want her to think he's that kind of man. He isn't that kind of man, anyway, but there's something about Jade that makes him want to prove to her that he isn't out to hurt anyone.

Maybe it's just the years of being undercover in places like this. Seeing what the men he's gone after before are like to the women and children in their lives.

At any rate, he can't avoid the hallway forever, if Lux is that way. He doesn't want to be thought of as a slacker this early on. First impressions matter.

The house is dimmer than it was before: they must have taken longer in the pantry than Harry had realized if the sun is already setting red and syrupy in late-August bleeds of color over the forest. He wishes he had his watch to check the time. Never was great at telling from the shadows, even though he'd learned it from Liam on that training run out in Wyoming.

Harry never liked Wyoming much.

He automatically quiets his footsteps on the stairs when he hears voices conversing, quietly, but audible from his position. In a house like this there are potential creaks underneath every footfall.

"I don't like it," Jade says insistently.

"You don't have to like it." That's Louis' voice, even and smooth, and it makes the hair on the back of Harry's neck stand up. "You told me your concerns and I listened to them. I'll keep it in mind."

"I just think we're going into winter," Jade says. "And we don't know where he's come from. He claims he's got nothing. I think he's a thief."

Ah. Harry crouches, using the shadows to his advantage.

"When he got here, the first person he ran into was me." Louis doesn't seem to take Jade's concern very seriously at all. "I saw what he had with him. He had that jacket that Daisy's fallen in love with, and nothing else. I don't think he even had anything in his pockets."

"But that's what I mean," Jade presses. "How did he get here, Louis? How did he know where we were? None of us knows him; has that ever happened? Outside of Niall, and you found him?"

"Maybe people talk about us." Louis' voice is light but there's something behind it that makes Harry almost subconsciously take a step back. "I've always wanted to be famous. I just don't think he's got any ill intentions, Beautiful Jade. He looks damn near terrified every time I even look at him."

"Does that seem normal?" There's another creak. "Leigh Anne doesn't trust him. And I trust Leigh."

Louis laughs. It seems rather inappropriate, considering the topic of conversation. "Does Leigh trust anyone, since Detroit?"

"Yeah," Jade says, and it pushes out plaintive and brusque. If Harry were Louis, he'd listen. "She trusts you."

"And I trust George." There's a hint of laughter still in Louis' voice like he thinks the world is a game and everybody is just a piece waiting to be moved across the board. "He hasn't given me a reason not to."

There's a long silence, and Harry dearly wants to creep closer to see what's causing it.

Louis heaves out a heavy sigh. "I appreciate you keeping an eye out for us." Now his words are gentle, fond. "And like I said, I'll keep it in mind. But I'm not going to throw him out when from what I know, he doesn't have anywhere to go."

"None of us do," Jade says, even more softly than before. "That's why I worry."

"I know you do." There's another silence, but this one doesn't last as long. "You said you did the pantry with him, right? Did he say anything else?"

"Claimed he hitched here," Jade says. "But that's all. Perrie was talking to him earlier."

"I'll be sure to talk to her as well, then." Thoughtful. It's frightening when Louis sounds thoughtful. "Thanks, love. You've been excellent as always."

"I just think you're too trusting," Jade murmurs. "Your heart's too soft, Louis."

"My heart hasn't been soft in quite a while." Louis clears his throat, and there's the sound of creaking wood. "But you're lovely to say so."

He's coming.

Harry has to stand and scuttle off into the nearest room to avoid being spotted, but it'll be inevitable; the house has no damned doors.

He can still hear the faint sound of their voices, but he can't make out the words anymore. What room is this? Can he pretend he got lost again? Louis might think he's an idiot, but in his experience, that's only ever helpful in situations like this.

"Hi!"

Harry jumps, heart pounding, hands automatically groping at his waist for a gun that isn't there. But it's just tiny Lux racing into the room, her arms outstretched as she barrels full-speed towards Harry's legs.

"Hey!" he croaks out, frantically trying to shove his fight instinct down while there's a toddler near him. He leans down to pick her up when she makes grabby hands at him. His heart's racing. 

"Gosshu," Lux crows, and touches his nose with the tip of one finger. It's unnerving, the way she's so trusting.

It sounds like Jade thinks the same of Louis.

"You got me," he replies dutifully, touching her nose in return. Her eyes go wide and astonished.

"Luxie!" Lou rushes into the room, still carrying a hairbrush. "Oh, George, good; you've got her."

"I do," he confirms. "She's alright, just tried to make a quick getaway, I'm guessing." He smiles, giving her another bounce on his hip.

Lux giggles, her nose wrinkled. Outside the door, Jade passes by and looks in with her good eye.

Harry smiles at her, too. She doesn't smile back, just frowns, a crinkle between her eyebrows.

"Jay!" Lux crows, and blows kisses to Jade. She isn't the least bit put off by the loss of Jade's eye or the scarring down her face. That's a rare trait in a child, as far as Harry's ever seen. He's impressed. Where he grew up, the veterans who’d lost eyes or legs were thought of as monsters.

"Hello, Luxie," says Jade. Her voice is different than it was when she'd spoken to him. More patient, he thinks. "Are you being good for your mother?"

Lux nods very solemnly even as beside them Lou shakes her head and draws a hand across her throat, making a grotesque face.

When she smiles, Harry doesn’t notice the scar, either.

"Good night, my loves," says Jade. She's not excluding Harry as obviously as she might, but he notices that even while she walks from the room, she doesn't look at him.

"That's right, little," Lou says, holding out her arms so Harry can pass Lux back to her. "It's night-night time for you."

"No," Lux insists. "Play?"

"You can play with George tomorrow." Lou gives Lux a little bounce. "As long as he's not doing anything else."

Lux leans back until she can give Harry a four-toothed upside-down grin. "Play?"

"Of course." Harry's smile contains more teeth, but he can't help feeling hers is more charming. "You know where to find me."

She blows him a kiss, too, her face pink because she's still hanging upside-down off Lou's arm. 

"Good night, George." Lou leans up and kisses Harry, right on the mouth, before taking Lux back to wherever they'd been.

He's not sure if that means anything. In this house, it might just be how they say good night.

He murmurs, _night_ , and stays where he is until the room's grown from dusky blue into the full-washed violet of nighttime.

It feels like forever and yet a second before there's the soft scuff of a foot on the floor behind him.

"What're you doing up here?" asks Jesy quietly. "Past your bedtime, isn't it?"

Harry looks back at her over his shoulder. She's luminous in the bright moonlight streaming through the window, her long hair almost to her waist and curling just so to intrigue. She looks harmless as a forest nymph, like in the picture books Harry had liked as a child.

She has freckles. He'd known that, but they're more obvious when the moon is shining so full through the window that it lights her like day.

"Come to bed," she invites.

Harry smiles with half his mouth, letting his cheek dimple. "You mean the blankets on the floor?"

"I mean with me," Jesy says, and reaches for his hands.

He lets her lead.

 

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	4. Chapter Four

Harry, somehow, is completely unprepared for Louis to approach him when he does. There's something about Louis (several things, in fact, all of which Harry is flummoxed by) which make him unpredictable, even though Harry's spent every waking moment since he's been here trying to predict him.

"Good morning, George," Louis says, smiling at him over the chipped rim of his cup of raspberry-leaf tea. He makes a face. "Terrible. I wish we could grow real tea here, but the climate just doesn't work. Also, I've never seen a tea seed, have you?"

"Not in person," Harry says honestly. "Do they need lots of sun? Or rain?"

"Mountains, I think," Louis mutters. "A lot of elevation and a lot of people to work the land."

"Not here, then." Harry glances outside, with the flat land and the sunshine and the tenants of Louis’ house.

"No," Louis agrees. He takes another sip and grimaces again. "Besides, the girls spend so much time on the raspberry plants. It's a shame to waste any part. Even if it's terrible. Anyway," he sits down on the edge of the table right next to Harry's plate, "Tom tells me that you're useless with tools."

Harry is torn between a protest and an agreement. He's not _useless_ , he wouldn't say, but to Tom he might well be. He wasn't very much help when they did the window together.

He hasn't exactly improved in the last few days, either. Mostly he ferries Lux around and gives the twins airplane rides on his back.

"I'm not... that bad," he settles on saying, taking care not to flinch away from Louis' movements.

"He showed me the shutter you tried to cut," Louis says pointedly. "I've never seen a corner that was less like a corner."

"Maybe you haven't seen the right corners," counters Harry. He leans back in his seat, folding his arms across his chest. A defensive gesture. A deliberate one.

Louis just leans closer, invading Harry's space with a smile. His tea smells very sweet. "It's alright, George. I just think you could use a little remedial help."

"From you?" Light, questioning. Don't be aggressive. It's natural, or it should be with all the training he's been through, but he keeps having to remind himself.

"I know a thing or two," Louis says. "Good with my hands, you know."

His voice has gotten lower, though he hasn't moved closer or otherwise implied anything. Harry knows a come-on when he hears one. "Is that so?"

Louis just smiles. "Come on. I need some help on a special project anyway, and you seem like the right person for the job."

Now that's interesting.

"As long as it doesn't involve any corners." Harry smiles and looks down at the table.

Louis just claps him on the back and hops down from the table like he's Peter Pan. His hand is very warm, soaked in all of the heat from his boiling pink tea.

It's an obvious gesture to follow him, and despite Harry's misgivings, being alone with Louis is actually what he should be trying to do more of.

Harry hands his plate to Leigh-Anne, who takes it without a glance, and follows Louis.

Louis never checks behind him to see if somebody is following, Harry's noticed. He assumes that they will, silently and without question.

Of course, he's never wrong. Even the littlest in the house keep on him so closely they're practically stepping on his heels.

That's the thing about cult leaders: they're trusted. Nobody under a cult leader's eye has anything but good things to say about them, and this place is no different. No matter how happy they seem, Harry has to remember that they've been fooled into trusting somebody that they shouldn't.

Something about Louis is off, and Harry can't shake it. Why are his sisters here if his mother isn't? And how could he be so much older than they are? Unless he's misjudged Louis' age, which has happened before. Harry sees facial hair and assumes adulthood, but he should have learned in Chicago that isn't always true. He'd had a gun pulled on him by a bearded seventeen-year-old there, after all.

For all he knows, Louis is his age. Louis might even be younger than him. There's so much that Harry doesn't know, but damned if he's not going to find out.

The first step to that is falling into line behind Louis where he's galloping up the stairs.

"Here we are," Louis announces in sing-song, shoving open a door to reveal an empty room scented of sawdust and shoe polish.

The windows are open, curtains billowing with the scent coming off the forest. Far down below, they can hear the twins laughing as Perrie and the other girls harmonize a song.

Louis can keep tabs on everyone working outside while he's in here, out of sight.

A shiver rolls down Harry's spine. Louis has probably watched him working, too, from this window. Without him knowing. Without anybody knowing.

Louis leans out the window, watching for a moment and sipping his tea, before he turns back to Harry. "So. This is my workshop. I can't do anything like Tom does, building big stuff for the house, but I can make small things. I do a little whittling."

"Like pan flutes?" asks Harry. He can't imagine Louis playing a pan flute.

Louis laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It's a surprisingly genuine laugh. "No, not like pan flutes. I'm not a faun or a centaur or whatever. Like little dolls for the twins, things like that. I sand down Niall's walking sticks when he needs it."

"Oh." That's... surprisingly selfless. Harry half expected him to say that he whittles stakes or something. Maybe daggers.

Little prayer talismans of his own face.

Dolls for his sisters or helping Niall with his walking sticks seems far too innocuous.

"That's actually what I'd like your help with," Louis says. He sets his mug down on the corner of a workbench and turns his back. Total faith. Harry hasn't taken his eyes off his own food or drink since he arrived. "I've made all these clothespin dolls for the twins, and they're always underfoot. I thought if, for Christmas, I gave them a dollhouse to keep them in, I thought I could stop stepping on them."

There's a hesitance in his voice, just a hint of a stammer in the usual smoothness. For some reason, he's nervous. 

"And you want me to help build it?" Harry asks slowly.

Louis nods. "You sharpen your tool skills – pun intended – and I can get help making it look nice."

"Okay." Perfect. He couldn't ask for a better opportunity to talk to Louis one-on-one and find out more about him. "I'm sorry if it ends up being terrible."

"They won't know the difference." Louis waves a dismissive hand. "They're good girls, they'll be thrilled either way. I just want to keep Zayn from making fun of me."

"I think it's nice of you." Harry looks out the window, keeping a faint smile on his face. "To make things for them. Everybody likes gifts."

They're a good way to keep people loyal.

"Everybody does like gifts," Louis agrees. He gestures toward the pile of wood at one end of the table which explains the smell of sawdust permeating the room. "Shall we?"

Harry's palms are sore and covered in growing blisters that will, eventually, become calluses, but are not yet. He tamps down a small groan. "Sure. You're in charge; tell me what to do."

"Well..." The word is drawn out like a small child might say it. "We should start by sorting through this wood to see which pieces are actually able to be salvaged into something, I think. No use using it if it isn't."

"Right," Harry says. "What could make it unusable?"

Louis gives him a sly smile over his shoulder before he tosses his long hair out of his eyes. "Having been sawed off at odd angles by someone who can't cut corners."

Harry laughs. He can't help it; it was funny. Clearing his throat, he meanders over to the table, poking at the wood like he's playing pick-up sticks.

"My sister had a dollhouse," he offers, and is surprised at himself. That's true, actually. "I always put the cat in it when it was a kitten, and she was so mad."

"The sister or the cat?"

"Both."

"I'm sure the cat appreciated it, deep down in its cat heart." Louis' smile has surprise behind it, like he and Harry both weren't expecting him to offer any sort of information about himself.

Harry looks down at the wood they're sorting. Louis' hands are smaller than his and very brown from working out in the sunshine. He has calluses lining his palms and the tips of his fingers.

He's a nailbiter. Harry’d noticed that, before, but it’s still surprising.

"Here." Louis, the tip of his tongue poking studiously from the corner of his mouth, leans back and eyes the pile of wood before he carefully divides it in half. "Just anything that's got a lot of knots, or weird staining, or if it's got a lot of holes."

"Right." Somehow this isn't what Harry had expected. If this is an initiation rite, it's very dull.

And yet, that's all Louis says to him before he starts sorting through his own half. He's humming under his breath, but he doesn't attempt to engage Harry in conversation.

Louis doesn't say a word, sitting beside Harry and picking through pieces. By copying his motions, Harry figures out what Louis is looking for quickly enough. Sounds keep humming through the window, both the rhythmic thump of Zayn and Tom hammering at shingles and the melody of the women singing, the twins' protestations when Niall hobbles outside to call them back to the kitchen for schooling, and the twittering of birds. Flies and bees loop-the-loop in and out of the window, but don't bother anyone.

It's nice. It might even be enjoyable, if Harry could figure out what Louis is up to and why he isn't saying anything.

It's boiling when the noon sun beams into the room, but Louis never undoes a single button on his denim shirt. He doesn't even roll up his long sleeves.

Harry is sure that it's because he has horrible scarring, or something, some _reason_ that he can't let Harry see anything between his neck and hands.

Then again, Harry has met plenty of men who won't show their tattoos until they know Harry will want the same affiliations.

He has cover-up roses in more than one place himself.

How is he supposed to learn anything about Louis if Louis won't engage him in conversation? From what knowledge he's gained so far, Louis talks all the time, to everybody, whoever will listen.

He isn't giving much in the way of body language, either. His back is straight, but not too straight. He's comfortable, but in charge.

Up to Harry, then. He's got a job to do and he can't do it if his target is silent.

"Have you ever built a dollhouse before?" he ventures, continuing to sort the wood.

"Yes," Louis says, and doesn't offer any more details.

"Oh." Damn it, he's obnoxious. "We didn't make the one my sister had. It was a birthday present, I think."

Louis nods. "I'm sure it was nice. I've always liked working with my hands, and I think with gifts it's the thought that counts."

"Do you help fix up a lot around here, then?" Working with his hands could mean anything from window panes to pipe bombs.

"You've seen," Louis says. "We all pitch in. I'm not very tidy, but I'm good at directing."

"You are good at that," Harry murmurs, thinking on how often he's seen Louis pop his head into a room where people are working to survey.

"Thank you!" Louis glances over, then lays a hand over Harry's wrist. His skin is hot where calluses don't cover. "Not that piece. The grain is loose, see? It'll splinter."

"Oh, sorry, I didn't notice." Harry sets the piece in the 'no' pile, dislodging Louis' hand in the process. He takes care not to be too cruel about it.

With cool eyes, Louis' gaze keeps on Harry until he has to look back and say, "What?"

"What?" Louis parrots back, though he doesn't look away. He smiles, just a little. It's unnerving.

"That look," Harry says. "What did I do?"

"You're skittish, George," Louis says, smiling down at his own little pile of planks. "You know that?"

Good. That's what he wants Louis to think. Harry frowns, pushing his lower lip out a little. "I – Is that a bad thing?"

There's a silence while they both sort through scrap pieces of wood. Harry tries to evaluate whether they seem to have been salvaged from other people's homes or stolen from construction sites, but they match the barn outside. 

"It makes me sad," Louis decides.

Here it comes, Harry thinks. Here's the part where Louis tells him that he can help George; he can make George not afraid of anything or anyone.

"I don't want to make you sad," he murmurs. Bait.

Louis hums. "I wish there was something I could do to make you less afraid that you'll be hurt while you're here," he says. It sounds more like he's thinking to himself than anything.

"You can't promise that," Harry says lightly. "Nobody can."

"I can promise you that I will do my best to ensure that you don't come to any harm." Louis still hasn't stopped looking at him. "And that I won't let anybody jeopardize your place here."

The intensity of his blue stare is so deep that Harry has to look away. He's seen a lot of genuine emotions: genuine hatred, genuine rage, genuine anguish, even genuine delight and genuine humiliation. But he's never seen such genuine... genuineness.

He doesn't even know if it's possible to be that genuinely sincere. Certainly not right now. Certainly not from this man.

It chills him. Louis Tomlinson is very good at what he does.

"Really?" Be skeptical, but hopeful. Let him reel you in.

The weight of Louis' hand on Harry's shoulder is substantial. He can feel him through his clothes. "I give you my word, George."

His word. Typical. What is that supposed to mean to Harry, anyway? Or to George, rather. A promise means nothing without trust. "Thank you. I appreciate it." He gives Louis a wobbly smile.

Louis grins. His bottom teeth are sharp and uneven, like stones on a riverbed. Or like a vampire, someone who lives off the stolen lifeblood of their servants.

He'd probably be a far worse salesman if he didn't look – and Harry's noticed, of course – like someone you might see in a catalogue, all windswept hair and tanned skin and twinkling blue eyes.

"I'm not going to hurt anyone, either," Harry says, very seriously. He looks up at Louis from beneath his floppy bangs. "Not if I can help it, anyway."

"I believe you." Louis nods, all sympathy and sincerity. Bullshit, both. "I let you stay, didn't I?"

"What would happen to me if you didn't?"

Louis' eyebrows pull together. "What do you mean? I suppose you'd have to find somewhere else to stay. Not that that's happening, anyway."

"Just... I know where you are now," Harry says carefully. "I've seen everyone who's here. Aren't you worried at all that someone might leave and tell?"

Louis shrugs, elegant, and carefully composed. God, he's good. "No," he says frankly. "Nobody's ever decided to leave once they stayed, and nobody's ever given me a reason to ask them to go."

"Oh." Harry turns back to his wood scraps. "I hope I'm not the first."

"You won't be." Louis sounds as though he has absolute faith in that. "I wouldn't have let you stay at all if I thought you might be."

If Harry had a conscience dictated by anything other than the Federal Bureau of Investigations, he would feel guilty.

As it is, he gives Louis a tremulous smile, and mumbles his thanks again.

He does come across as very nice. When Harry was training for this mission, Liam and Nick – SSA Grimshaw, rather, but he's always just 'Nick' to Harry – were horrible to him in their help in bringing his tolerance for initiation rites back to where it was when he left for Chicago. But Louis hasn't tried anything yet.

Yet.

When he does, Harry'll be ready. George might not, but Harry will be.

There's a knock on the doorframe. When Harry looks over, Phoebe-Sunshine and Daisy are both standing there, each covering one of their own eyes and one of their sister's eyes.

"I told you girls not to come into this room while me and Georgie were working," says Louis. He sounds more stern talking to them than he does when he's talking to Harry. "Thank you for not looking. What do you need?"

"We wanted to show Petunia and Molly George," Phoebe-Sunshine explains.

"They haven't met him yet, and they're nervous," adds Daisy.

"Well, we can do that downstairs. Down you go, get to it." Louis sorts the piece of wood that he's holding into the 'yes' pile. "We'll be along in a minute."

The twins sound like a herd of horses as they gallop down the stairs. With the addition of a small yell in the mix, it's clear that they've roused Lux's attention, and she tumbles out to meet them with a different thumping rhythm.

"Who are Petunia and Molly?" Harry asks Louis.

"The goats," Louis says. "They're ill-tempered and will eat your shirt if you turn your back."

"I'll make sure not to do that, then." Harry's very protective of his shirt, as one of the only belongings he has with him. It's a plain t-shirt, nothing more, nothing less, and he's been lent clothes by all of the others, but this one reminds him to focus on getting back to his closet full of clothes.

They're nice clothes, too, all dress shirts and suit jackets that Mom had tailored for him when he got promoted to Special Agent.

He misses his nice suits and his short hair and his too-small apartment and his too-messy desk.

He's never met a goat.

He doesn't think they even have goats in Iowa.

With all the farms, there must be some, but not in the suburbs where Harry lived until he had to leave at fourteen. And they certainly don't have any goats in Quantico. Or Washington. Just asses.

"I've never met a goat," Harry tells Louis.

"It's nothing to write home about," Louis jokes. "Since we all live here and have already met them. But the twins do love them; they helped birth them last spring."

"Are there a lot of goats here? Or just the two?" It's odd to Harry that he wouldn't have met them yet. He supposes he really doesn't go outside all that often, even if it is lovely.

"There are a few old crotchety ones, too, but Petunia and Molly are the twins' special favorites, since they're _their babies_ ," Louis explains.

That's very cute. Harry smiles, and it's not entirely for show. "Did they name them?"

"Of course. They have to have their independence, don't they? Lux has a dolly called Kerchoof, but she's named it herself and she's proud of it."

"Did she name it that, or did she just sneeze when you asked her what its name was?" Harry asks. He's still smiling. What a ridiculous place he's found himself in.

Louis stops and a look of befuddlement clouds over his face. "You know... I've never asked."

Harry laughs.

He laughs at something Louis says.

Clearing his throat, he moves on, saying, "Well, I'd love to meet them."

"The twins would love to show you." Louis ushers Harry down the stairs, and sure enough the twins are bouncing from foot to foot on the landing, antsy as they wait for their turn to show off.

They grab one hand each and try to tug him out the door in a line of three, too wide for the doorway, and it takes some rearranging before they can all fit.

Behind them, Lux coos _Uppy, Lulu_ , and Harry knows that Louis and the baby are following them outside.

"They're very nice," Daisy tells him from Harry's side. She's only about half as tall as him, if that. It's like carrying on a conversation with a gnome.

"They're only toddlers," Phoebe-Sunshine explains. "They are six months younger than Lux."

"Me," Lux agrees.

"Is that _your_ name?" Harry asks with a gasp as he holds his hand to his heart.

It tugs Daisy's arm up with it, and she giggles, so he does the same to Phoebe-Sunshine. They're both so light he's almost able to hoist them off the ground.

"Yes, but that's not her goaties," Daisy says. She's fairly bossy, Harry's noticed. Definitely her brother's sister.

"Are they your goats?" He already knows, from what Louis told him, but he likes kids. He likes talking to kids. They're honest and they like life.

"Petunia is mine," she says. "Because we're both beautiful flowers."

"I have Molly," says Phoebe-Sunshine. "Because I like the name Molly."

"I like the name Molly, too," says Harry. "And I've always liked beautiful flowers."

The twins both preen. The yard is awash in hot, dry sunlight. Jesy, Jade, and Leigh-Anne are working on the porch, harmonizing together in a song. The sounds of a saw echo from inside the barn where Tom and Zayn must be.

Idyllic is the first word that comes to Harry's mind. He wishes everything was as it seems.

The paddock for the goats is made of plain lumber and bent wire, high enough that they can't jump out on their strong goat legs but short enough that the twins can reach the latch at the top to get in and out. It's immediately clear that they do that a lot, considering both goats' tufts of hair have been meticulously adorned with flower crowns.

"Pretty," Harry says. He's pretty sure that Louis just snorted behind him.

Daisy flings her arms around the neck of a dyspeptic-looking black goat with a white muzzle and torpid blue eyes.

"This is 'Tunia," she announces with a grand smile on her face. 'Tunia, as she put it, doesn't look particularly excited to be meeting Harry.

"Hello, Petunia," Harry says, bowing. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Petunia takes a bite of Harry's long hair, and Harry yelps. Behind him, Lux shrieks and applauds at the show.

"Ow," Harry mumbles. His scalp is tingling with twinges of pain. Petunia is unapologetic.

"She likes you," Daisy assures him. Next to Harry, there's a nuzzle and a nudge and a loud chortling right in his ear as apparently Molly decides to join the feast.

She's less bitey than her counterpart, instead just butting her head against Harry's ear until he gives her a pet and a scratch 'round the ears.

"Daisy," implores Phoebe-Sunshine, "Stop makin' Georgie bald."

"I've got some hair to spare, it's alright," Harry reassures. Apart from the initial pain, haircut by goat is at least a good anecdote.

"See?" Daisy pets Petunia's fur. "'Tunia's helpful. Molly's just lazy."

"I like Molly," protests Louis. He's closer than Harry was expecting him to be, leaning down so that Lux can pet the goats as well. "She reminds me of myself."

"You have the same eyes," Phoebe-Sunshine says, and there's a little sound as she kisses her brother's cheek.

"Thank you, Phoebe, that's very kind of you." Louis smacks a kiss to her cheek back, a loud smooching sound that makes Phoebe-Sunshine screech with giggles.

"Me, me!" There's a second squeak as Louis kisses Lux's round, jiggly cheek.

"Heyyy," says Daisy, whining. "Me now, me!"

"Why don't you rescue our George's hair first?" Louis asks.

Physical affection as a reward. Harry should have known. He's going to have to keep a closer eye on the little ones.

"He said he doesn't need all of it," Daisy dismisses, bouncing on her toes and offering her cheek to Louis.

"No, no, no," Louis murmurs. "Call off your hounds."

"She's a goat!" Daisy sulks, but still eases the flat-edged teeth away from Harry's head.

Louis leans down and kisses Daisy's cheek as Harry feels over the back of his hair. It doesn't actually seem to be any shorter, just wet and sticky.

He didn't think, when he took this job, that goat spit was going to be a concern. He's having to deal with a lot of unexpected saliva since he's come here.

"Aren't they nice?" Phoebe-Sunshine presses, still petting her own, more well-mannered, white goat. It has the beginning nubs of tiny horns, and Harry takes it that means everyone's too polite to tell her that 'Molly' might be a 'Morton.'

"They're very nice," Harry replies. He pats Petunia, who snorts at him and bares her teeth.

Even with the goat saliva dripping down his neck, it's a fairly nice way to spend an afternoon. Lux crawls right into his lap so she can reach the goats' round bellies, and it's nice to be so... wholeheartedly accepted. Even by a toddler who doesn't know better.

Lux is probably the first friend he made when he came here. He guesses he's got a soft spot for her.

It's easy: she may be here, and maybe she's brainwashed, but she has no agenda and no malice and has committed no crimes. Of that, Harry is very sure.

And she's very cute. She reminds Harry of kids that other agents have brought into work, wide-eyed taking in everything around them with a sense of wonder.

Gemma's youngest is probably around this age now. Harry's never known any of his nieces or nephews this young; he's always been undercover. It just works out that way, what with how systematically Gemma plans her children and the FBI rotates its missions.

"It was very nice to meet you," he says to the goat in front of him – Molly. Lux laughs, and Molly flutters her lips at him.

"Ghosts," Lux explains, patting Petunia's gut. "Ghosts eats grarbages."

"Do they?" Harry asks. It's easy to feign that he has any idea what she's talking about. "I didn't know that."

She preens happily and then pushes herself up to her feet, using the goat for leverage. She toddles past Louis to the feed basket and emerges with a handful of shredded papers.

_Ah._ Well, it's a clever disposal system, at least.

"Grarbages," she explains, and holds out the handful for Petunia, who chomps away.

Harry wonders what's on those papers that Louis would need to dispose of. Incriminating documents, no doubt.

Tax forms. Identification. Stolen identification. Counterfeit money?

"Hey, keep your little fingers flat, Luxie," Louis murmurs, easing up onto his knees to get hold of her. "You don't want Petunia to munch them off, right?"

Obediently, Lux holds her palm out flat, letting Petunia's lips nuzzle her hand while she eats. "Flat," she repeats.

Louis kisses the top of her head. "Good girl."

He's sweet with her, Harry thinks. Or he looks like he is.

Of course, to brainwash people, that's what you have to do, isn't it? Be sweet to them. Make them like you. Make them trust you.

But Harry can't trust Louis. He can't like him, either, even though with Lux in his arms, that's a tempting possibility.

It's just harder to dislike people who are holding children. Maybe that's why Louis has three of them with him.

It's hard to dislike the goats, either. They're just self-interested and hungry and happy.

Like people, pretty much.

"Hello, little ones," says a thickly-accented, cheerful voice. "And George. You're pretty tall."

"Am I?" Harry looks down at himself. He is taller than most of the people here. He'd gotten so used to being around Liam or Nick that being called tall isn't something he's used to.

"Bigger than the littles," Niall amends. "Including Louis."

"Rude," Louis denounces, drawing himself up. He's still pretty short. "Rude and unnecessary, Irish."

Niall leans heavily on his cane and unlatches the door to the paddock before easing his way inside. He pats both twins on the head, adds some shredded papers to the feed trough, and sits on a hay bale, cane across his thighs.

"We were introducing George to the goats," says Louis, picking Lux back up to settle her against his hip. "They quite like him."

"'Tunia ate his hairs," Daisy informs Niall, scampering over to give him a hug.

Just like with Jade and Lux, the twins don't seem at all put off by Niall's mangled leg.

"Oh, I hate that one," Niall says agreeably. Harry wouldn't think, looking at him, that he'd be capable of hate. Appearances can be deceiving, though. Harry knows that well. "Kept trying to nibble the end of my stick."

"She doesn't know better," Daisy admonishes. "Love makes the world go 'round, Niall. Hate is bad."

"Hate is bad," Louis says, the corners of his mouth turned up. "Say you're sorry to Petunia, Niall."

Niall rolls his eyes, but reaches out to pat the goat between its silky ears. "I'm sorry, Petunia, who totally understands my words."

Petunia replies with an irritable croak, like an actual response. It startles Harry into laughter.

Everyone smiles back at him, Lux applauding so hard her pigtails wriggle. The sun is warm on Harry's back.

Picturesque. Everything's very picturesque, and Harry can't quite reconcile it with the lie that he knows it is.

All the same, he's living here. If he learned to like the food and weather in Chicago, he can learn to like this.

And it'll probably be easier than it was in Chicago. After all, he's been here a while now, and nobody's pulled a knife on him.

He hasn't caught anyone snorting cocaine off of anyone else, either, and as far as he can tell, all of the sex that's being had here – of which he's seen a lot already – is done willingly.

No hard drugs. No drugs of any kind, actually. No sex trafficking. No violence. No shady business deals (that he's aware of). They're just... here.

With goats.

It's all very quaint, and it wasn't supposed to be.

There were supposed to be – be swastikas carved into the walls, or maybe the people, and long sermons about how Louis Is God every morning. Not... building a dollhouse and playing with goats who have flowers around their ears.

Harry made a corn and weenie casserole when he first arrived. A _corn and weenie casserole_. And they let him. And they ate it. And they liked it.

The first night that Harry was sent in in Chicago, five guys twice his width beat the shit out of him until his nose and three ribs and half his fingers were broken. The first night that he'd healed enough and they'd accepted him, because he beat someone else, they got him a fifty-dollar dinner and topped it off with champagne.

This isn’t anything like that. But he's not sure what it _is_ , either.

When the shoe will drop.

He has to figure it'll be soon. They can only hide whatever they're hiding for so long, and he will figure out what it is, and he will bust up whatever it is, and then he'll go home.

Back to Quantico, where there's cigarette smoke thick enough in the squad room that it's a visible dank gray cloud in the air. The stench clings to every article of clothing Harry owns even though he doesn't smoke.

He hates that smell. All he smells right now is fresh air, and flowers, and – okay, and a little bit of goat shit.

That might be the slime that's cemented his hair to the back of his head, actually; from his limited experience, it seems that both ends of a goat smell more or less the same and neither is like a petunia.

"Why don't we go check with Miss Jesy to see what's for dinner?" Louis asks, getting a hand on each twin's head. "Maybe she'll let you help tonight."

"I want to grate things!" Daisy claps her hands. They're covered in grass stains and goat hair.

"Wash your hands before you talk to Jesy!" Louis says loudly. He has to speak loudly because both twins are already scampering back to the house, Lux squirming out of Harry's arms and toddling after them on her shorter legs.

"Wait, me!" she calls, and to Harry's surprise, the twins do stop and wait for her. They even reach out so she can grip their fingers for balance as she attempts the big stairs up the back porch.

"They like to help out with dinner," Louis says. "And Jesy's good with them as well. They like her a lot."

"They seem to like everyone," Harry says.

"They've never met someone who gave them a reason not to," Louis says. "Lucky girls."

"Very lucky." Harry wishes he was that lucky.

Louis claps him on the shoulder. "You'll see. We're all about turning our luck around here."

It says something about how long he's been here, Harry thinks, that he almost believes him.

With the sun blazing pinky-red over the treetops as the sky prepares to begin a brilliant sunset, it's a little too easy.

He's never been the type to believe in luck. His job won't allow for it, too strictly divided into right and wrong and good and bad and solid, tangible things to be fiddling with things like luck or chance. The longer he's here, though, the more he starts to wonder if maybe he should.

Harry keeps waiting for the horror he'd been expecting to come to pass, and day after day, it doesn't. Maybe they're waiting for an eclipse or a comet. Maybe they only believe in numerals, and their rampage is planned for July 7 of next year, 7/7/77. Maybe for Louis' birthday, they'll sacrifice the goats. Because right now, they aren't really doing much of anything. They clean the house. Take care of the children surprisingly well – Harry keeps a close eye on them. They eat communal meals. They fuck all night on the floor.

Maybe that's how they get you, with the sex. There's a lot of sex in this house, and far less devil worship and rituals than he'd been expecting. There's no ritualistic theme to the sex, either, just an incredible amount.

He's read about that – the Children of God out in California do it, too. 'Flirty fishing.' They call their women the 'whores of Jesus,' but Harry hasn't heard anyone refer to the women here like that, and, he thinks, if anyone ever called Jesy a whore, she might gut them.

Harry's a little bit scared of Jesy, and for more than one reason. It's not just that she can get this look in her eye like she could kill a man without blinking.

It's just that he's also not... sure. About Jesy. Is he her boyfriend? (Would it be a 'boyfriend,' here? Maybe he's her... consort?)

Harry is used to being able to label things. He's Gemma's brother, Liam's partner, his mother's son. He doesn't know what to call something that hasn't been given a name.

Mostly every night, Jesy crawls over to him and they kiss and cuddle and do whatever else.

But sometimes, she goes over to Jade instead, and Harry doesn't really know what to do with that. And last night, Lou had been buzzing around Harry, but she's... she's with Tom.

They have a child together and everything, and they love each other; that's clear to any person with eyes. So why would she be interested in Harry?

Besides, he's the newest here. It doesn't make sense that he'd be anyone's choice. Not when there's Louis. But Louis always just sits back and watches at night, surveying coolly, as fully clothed as ever.

It's maddening.

He can't see what the point of Louis having everybody here is if he's not going to have sex with any of them, much less him being in the room at the same time. Harry pays attention, and Louis never even touches himself. His hands remain resting lightly on his thighs or on the arms of his chair.

And he doesn't say a word. He doesn't tell anyone who they're to be with, even, as far as Harry's ever heard. But he _stares_.

Harry doesn't think he's crazy when he thinks that mostly, Louis stares at _him_. Him and whomever he's with at the time.

Maybe Jesy is Louis' after all, like he first suspected. She's his flirty-bait. Although that doesn't quite make sense because he pays the same amount of attention to her otherwise as he does anyone else.

Harry just can't figure it out. Nobody here behaves as they're supposed to, as he was trained to expect them to.

So he'll wait. The initiation or the swindle will happen eventually. It has to.

In the meantime, he can stay here and keep watch. Someone will slip up and then he'll go back home and it'll be a job well done.

As far as assignments go, anyway, he'd rather be here than sent somewhere that _is_ what he'd expect. Compared to Chicago, this is a king's assignment. A piece of cake.

He misses cake. Maybe there's a way to make a cake from canned beans? He'll ask somebody.

But if that's his only discomfort, he'll happily weather a life without refined sugar. He'll get used to it eventually, and then he'll stop being so tired.

And sore.

His back really wasn't made for long nights on wood floors, much less sex on wood floors. It seems like every morning when he wakes up, he creaks, the bones down his spine crack-crack-cracking all in a row.

Before long, he'll probably be a hunchback. Plus, he's a little bit worried about getting splinters in his ass.

He's had this problem since he was younger, but a good bedframe with a steady mattress had solved it. Now, sleeping on the floor, he's wondering if he might have to sneak out onto the grass to get something softer than planks underneath him.

Maybe when Lux graduates to a trundle bed with the twins, Harry can have her crib.

The porch has chairs which are actually okay to sit in for a while, but his back won't stop bothering him. How's he supposed to do his job, he wonders, rubbing above his beltloops, if he's hobbling everywhere like an old man?

He grunts as his fingers find a particularly stubborn knot of muscle. 

"Y'alright there, mate?"

Harry jumps, then relaxes. Irish, friendly, the sound of steps interspersed with a clunk. Niall.

With a bone-deep sigh, Niall eases into the rocking porch chair and slowly, slowly straightens out his leg with both hands. There's definitely something wrong with his knee. If pressed, Harry would guess that the patella is no longer there.

"Yeah," he says finally, answering Niall's question. "Just been having problems with my back lately. Old issues."

Niall nods, a tense wince on his lips under the heavy scrub of his blond beard. "I know what you mean. It's nice to be around people at night, but sleeping on the ground is for young pups. I'm just not anymore."

With his face, Harry wouldn't have pegged Niall for a day over 25. "Leg act up on you?" he asks, cautious.

Niall nods. "Hurts nearly all t'time. I do what I can, but I'm useless."

"Well, what do you do for yours?" asks Harry. "Maybe that'll help me anyway."

"Leigh-Anne knows some good tricks," Niall says. "She makes this thing, numbing rub, with mushrooms and some other things. It helps. You could talk to her?"

"I could do that," Harry mutters. He hasn't really spoken to Leigh very much. Or, actually, ever, now that he's thinking about it. He wonders how that can be, in a house where everyone lives on top of each other.

It's not like he's been avoiding her – he needs intel on everyone. But she's very close with Jade, and Jade still doesn't trust him. He ought to fix that. It doesn't work in his favor.

But if he comes across too much like he wants to get to know her, it'll only make her more suspicious. He knows that. He's met a lot of (too many) people like Jade.

Coming on strong won't help either of them. All he can do is wait and show Jade that he isn't –

The thing is, Harry isn't really sure whether he's a good person. But he knows categorically that he isn't _bad_. 

"What's the deal with Leigh-Anne?" Harry asks Niall, trying to sound casual. "Was she a doctor?"

"She's done a bunch of stuff," Niall replies. It gives nothing away. "Real private. Doesn't talk if she doesn't have to."

Harry frowns.

"Don't take it personal," Niall says. He stretches his leg slowly, slowly, and Harry's own knee hurts just at the sight of it.

"Anything I can do?" he finds himself offering. "For your knee, not, I know not to take it personally."

Niall gives him an incongruous smile. "You're a nice lad, George. Keep that. No, you can't help, I'm afraid. Maybe when you're stoppin' inside, bring me back something to drink?"

"I can do that," Harry says. There's no time like the present, as his mother always says, so he winces, braces himself, and then carefully levers out of the chair.

He rolls his neck and shoulders once before heading off into the house. It's no cooler inside than out, the late-August summer a wet, dense heat that saturates everything from skin to wood. Harry should be able to see the air; it's so still and heavy.

He's not sure where Leigh-Anne would be, but he does know where drinks are, and he stops off to get Niall a cup of good sun tea.

Perrie is in the kitchen with Lou and the littles when he arrives. Daisy seems to be basking in the heat, but Phoebe-Sunshine looks like she has a temper tantrum brewing. Lou has one hand on Lux's back as she sits in a pot of cool water on the kitchen table, red-eyed and sniffly.

"Something wrong?" Harry asks, hesitant but wanting to offer help if he can. Crying children are his weakness.

"It's just too hot," Lou says, and rubs Lux's back. "I wish we had some ice, but there's nothing we can do about that."

"At least it's the end of the hot spell," says Harry sympathetically. "The last ones are usually in August, aren't they? Starts being autumn, after that."

"We may get one more," Perrie says. "We're in one of the cross-patterns between Canada and the Atlantic coast. Hard to predict, really. We should get a storm soon, though, that'll break this humidity."

It's always surprising what Perrie knows. She mentioned having been at Stanford, once, and Harry still wonders what for. And why she left.

"A little rain would be nice," Harry muses, looking out the window. Humid and hot don't make for a very good time, and he thinks if it started raining right now, he might just go stand out in the middle of it.

"We're just having cold raspberry soup for dinner," Lou says. "If that's why you've wandered in."

"Oh, no, that's alright. Sounds nice," Harry says. "I was looking for Leigh-Anne, actually?"

"Oh." Perrie looks surprised. "She'll be upstairs, I think. She likes to mend things, gives her something to do with her hands."

"Right," Harry says. "Thanks." He leans in and kisses Perrie's cheek. It's already become instinct.

She kisses him back with great cheer, and gives his hair a ruffle. It must feel disgusting, all sweat and filth, but she does it anyway.

He's probably no worse than anyone else here. It's not like they're all bathing every day, either. Cleaner than he would’ve expected, but still ragged around the edges.

He heads up the stairs, deliberately stepping on the ones he's already memorized as creaking loudly. If he ever needs to use that information, it'll be better if it seems like he didn't know ahead of time.

Leigh-Anne is in one of the rooms with many windows, all of them thrown open in an attempt to catch some breeze. None of the curtains shift at all, though, the day too set in its ways.

When Harry clears his throat, knocking on the frame of the door for good measure, she jumps, clutching what she's mending to her chest.

"Ouch!" she hisses as the tip of the darning needle pierces her finger. "Shit. George, what do you want?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Harry says. He takes a step back, even though he's at least ten feet away from her and not even in the room.

"It's fine." She looks back down at the sock she's repairing. "What did you want?"

"I was talking to Niall, and he mentioned something about you helping him with his knee?" Harry replies, maintaining his distance. She said it was fine, but Harry doesn't want to push his boundaries. There's something buzzing at him that's telling him to stay right where he is and not move any closer, and his instincts rarely steer him wrong.

"Yeah," she says. Nothing else. 

"Erm," Harry tries, "And um, my back's hurting? So I was wondering if you could, you know. Help me?"

She looks at him, and for a moment, Harry feels very small, like he hasn't since he learned how to break a man's neck.

"I don't think I'll be able to help you," she says after a long pause. "Sorry."

"Oh." Harry looks at his feet. "Sorry to bother you, then. If you think of anything, will you tell me?"

"Yeah, of course." He can't hear a lie in her voice, but he's pretty sure it's there.

There's a tension in the air that isn't just rain waiting to break. "Do you need some help with anything?"

"No, thank you. I'll be fine on my own." Nothing offered, nothing accepted. Harry's met more than one person like that, but he'd gotten to a point upon his stay here where he hadn't expected to come across it in this house.

"Oh." His belly is disquieted, like he's done something wrong but can't place what it is. "Alright, then. Um, Perrie says there's cold raspberry soup for dinner."

"Oh, lovely. It'll be nice to have something cold, in this weather. I'll look forward to it," Leigh replies.

And then she's back to her darning, and Harry knows he's been dismissed.

Still, he waits a moment to see if she'll say anything else. To see if _he_ should say anything else.

When she doesn't even look up at him, Harry takes his wriggly belly and heads back down the stairs.

The next morning the sky stays dark when Harry wakes, and it feels like Leigh-Anne's chilly mood has informed the whole day. It makes sense that his back's been aching, too, always worse when rain is coming.

Even the mood of the house seems tense, on edge, like everybody's waiting for an inevitable... _something_. It's quiet when he gets to the kitchen, though the room isn't empty.

Phoebe-Sunshine has her nose pressed to the window, measuring the tiny pitter-patter of rain beginning to fall on the porch with a little drumbeat.

"How's the weather look?" Harry asks, stepping up behind her and dipping into a crouch to look out into the yard.

She flops. "I wanted to go outside and draw the cloud-people today. But now I can't."

"Gonna storm," says Daisy from the floor, her mouth turned down in a sulk. "I wanted to play with the goaties."

"It might not storm," Harry offers. "It's only raining now."

The twins exchange a darkly bubbling look. "It's going to storm," they say together.

They would probably know better than him, how storms work here. Still, for now it's only grey skies and a few grumpy clouds on the horizon.

The droplets hitting the porch are so tiny they look more like fog than rain. But everyone around the table seems down, like being indoors is to be trapped, and not by Louis.

As the day progresses, it becomes more and more clear that the twins were right. It's not just a little bit of rain by the afternoon. It's a storm.

Harry's never been in the house all day before. It seems too small with all of these people now – impossible to get away from the screech of Lux's unhappy squalling – and also too big, like it can't quite regulate the right temperature or let in enough dying light.

Even the people who usually spend their time inside anyway are affected. Jade is taking the pantry inventory even though they've just done it, her mouth a thin line and her brows pulled together in the middle.

Louis stalks from room to room like an agitated tomcat. Harry hasn't seen him quite like this yet, so very far from easygoing, and it's jarring. The whole situation is jangling his nerves.

That night, the sky breaks. When Harry was nine years old back in Iowa, a tornado flattened most of the neighborhood. Harry and Gemma and Mom had clung to the legs of a table down in the cellar, and Harry spent the whole storm with his face pressed into Gemma's long hair. When they'd come back up into the world, the bathroom was gone and the outside had come inside. It took weeks to rebuild. Harry knew that they were lucky: the Barlows lost their kitchen and three bedrooms. Mr. Walsh lost his wife.

Ever since then, Harry's been skittish about storms. A mobster coming at him with a .38 Colt, Harry can do something about. Nine somethings. But he can't stand in the way of nature. It has to run its course, and it reigns over all.

The rain outside is coming down in sheets so thick that it's hard to see past the front porch, relentless water and sound and force. Lux has her face buried in Lou's hair and Harry has a moment of déjà vu so strong that he has to grab on to something to keep from losing his balance.

Lou rubs her hand in soothing circles over Lux's back. "It's alright, little one. Nothing bad can happen, okay?"

Harry knows that's not true, but he hopes that Lux doesn't need to learn that quite yet. He's noticed he's not the only one who looks shaky – Niall's face is the color of spoiled milk, and his grip on his cane is so tight Harry wonders if it might splinter.

Beside him, Perrie is sprawled in Zayn's lap. She's been lethargic the last few days, and everyone else has pitched in to make up the bulk of her chores while she sleeps. Jade's been fretting that no one has enough vitamin C, poring over labels of their cans and jars even more than usual.

"It'll probably last through the night." Louis is staring out the window, leaned against the wall next to it. None of them have chores to do outside, Harry's noticed. Louis didn't assign anything past the front door.

He seems restless without anything to do or anyone to monitor. Either that or the storm's put him on edge, too. He's biting the nails on one hand and drumming his other against the windowsill.

Everybody seems on edge, actually, if only in subtle ways. They all silently decided to stay in one room, as well. Everybody in the house is here, which usually only happens at dinnertime.

It's a group of people who don't like loud noises and feeling trapped.

Harry feels restless. He wants to do something with his hands, or, when he was at home and this feeling crept up on him, he'd field strip and clean his weapon, see how fast he could do it.

There isn't anything like that here. Tom's whittling, and Jesy has her knitting needles out, but Harry doesn't know how to do either of those.

He wonders if he's allowed to leave the room. He doesn't particularly want to, not with the storm going, but he wonders if they'd _let_ him.

He's so lost in thought that it's a surprise when the weight of one of the twins falls into his lap and Harry lets out an _oof_.

"Hi," he greets when he has air back in his lungs. He thinks this one is Phoebe-Sunshine. Even after being here a while, they’re so identical that it’s hard to tell until they speak.

She winds her fingers around a curl of Harry's hair that insistently ruffles his neck whenever he turns his head. Her other hand's thumb is in her mouth.

"What's wrong?" he asks gently. He gives her back a rub, because he can tell what's wrong without asking, but sometimes it helps to talk about it.

"I'm worried about Molly," she says, wetly, around her thumb.

Oh, right, the goats. They'll be out in this rain, won't they? "I'm sure she'll be alright," Harry reasons. "Animals are good at being in hard weather."

Phoebe-Sunshine does not look convinced. "She's only a small baby. What if it was Luxie out right now?"

Harry can't resist checking to make sure that Lux is still where she was before. "Lux isn't a goat," says Harry. "Goats are very... durable. They're strong."

Phoebe-Sunshine's eyes fill with tears anyway, so Harry pats her hair. "Come on, now. They have their mama, don't they? And a nice little home. I bet they're jumping in puddles and having the time of their lives."

"What if their house falls down?" Phoebe-Sunshine pushes her face against Harry's arm sadly. "Or their food blows away?"

Well.

That might happen. Outside the window, a hefty tree branch comes cartwheeling past, scratching at the shutters like a campfire ghost story.

"What would you like to do?" Harry asks. He might not be able to assuage her fears, but he can try.

She shrugs and sniffles, her thumb wet and wrinkly when she pulls it out of her mouth in contemplation. "Check 'em."

"But it's storming out," he says, like she might not have noticed. "People could get hurt outside in a storm like this."

She nods. "Goats can, too. _Please_ can we just look out the porch?"

"Let's ask Louis first," says Harry. He knows that Louis said nobody has given him a reason yet to throw someone out, but he's pretty sure that putting his sister in the middle of a raging thunderstorm could do it.

Phoebe-Sunshine nods, but makes no move to stand. She just stares at Harry plaintively until he sighs and lifts her like an oversize ragdoll.

He steps around people, taking care not to disturb anybody, and makes his way over to the window where Louis is still staring outside. He clears his throat when Louis doesn't look over.

Louis jumps, then has to sweep his hair out of his eyes. "Oh! Hi, sweet pea. What's wrong?"

"Tell Louis like you told me," Harry says, adjusting his grip on Phoebe-Sunshine until she can face her brother. "What're you worried about?"

"I'm worried about Molly," she parrots. "Can we _please_ go check 'em?"

Louis frowns, but it's more contemplative than dismissive. "In this?" he asks dubiously.

Phoebe-Sunshine nods, her eyes tearful and huge. "Please, Louis? Please, I just want to look from the porch, please?"

"Oh, don't give me those eyes. Alright," says Louis, sighing. He holds out his arms and Harry relinquishes his grip. Phoebe-Sunshine scrambles to get her arms around Louis' neck. "Just from the porch. And you don't let go of me, okay?"

Phoebe-Sunshine nods and immediately tucks her feet up around his ribs and rests her cheek against the join of his shoulder, completely trusting that she's safe as long as she's with him.

"Are you coming with us?" Louis asks. He sounds amiable enough to the suggestion.

It's really coming down out there. But Phoebe-Sunshine levels Harry with a pout powerful enough that he sighs and says, "Okay."

Harry's the one who opens the door because Louis only has one free hand. The wind is blowing full force trying to keep it closed, like a warning to just stay inside.

"We're just looking," Louis yells to Phoebe. "We're not staying outside! I'm sure they're fine!"

Except that even from here, Harry's pretty sure he can tell they're not fine. Looking in the direction of the goat pen, Harry can only just make out what used to be planks keeping them inside, and is now just a crumpled pile of wood.

On the scream of the wind carries a tiny, pitiful bleat in mourning.

"Molly!" Phoebe-Sunshine calls out into the rain. The noise of it just comes right back at them, along with the rain and wind.

She nudges Louis' bearded cheek with her nose. "Louis, _please_ go save her, _please_?"

Louis sighs, his free hand shielding his eyes as he looks off in the same direction Harry is. "I'll do my best, Sunshine. But you're not coming with me, understand? You're to stay here with Zayn and Perrie."

Phoebe-Sunshine puts on a brave face. It looks just like her brother's, chin out and eyebrows set in a firm line. She nods and lets Louis set her down on her feet.

"Back inside now," Louis says, his tone final. "Let Niall know where we've gone, okay?"

He looks at Harry. "You are coming, right, George?"

Harry would like to say no. He would like to say that Louis can do it on his own because Harry's already flinching at the sound in the distance of branches cracking and falling to the ground.

But he nods instead.

"Yeah, 'course." He looks down at Phoebe's sodden little head and gives her a tight-lipped smile. "Gotta check on Molly."

"And 'Tunia, I guess," replies Phoebe. "Or Daisy'll be sad."

"Right," Harry agrees. "We'll check on all the goats, even. And I'll give you a report back later."

He gets a hug around his leg for that before Phoebe goes scuttling back into the house.

Louis turns to Harry as a gale whips his hair up into a mane. "You alright before we go?"

Harry has to yell to be heard over the roar of the wind and all the damned tin-can-lid chimes that Jesy's hung around the porch. They're liable to slit Harry's throat, flinging around the way they are.

"Let's just get it over with." The sooner he's out of this, the better. He doesn't know if the plan is to get the pen back up or if it's to get the goats somewhere safe, but he'd rather get it done now.

"Right," Louis says. He hesitates, though, before jumping down the porch steps. He lands ankle-deep in mud, a spray that speckles his jeans up to his knees. He holds out his hands in a silent offer to help Harry down.

Harry wouldn't, ordinarily, take it. But right now he's in the middle of this massive storm and he's surrounded by wind and danger and water, so he grasps Louis' wrist and steps off the porch.

The mud that seeps into his socks is cold enough to remind him that autumn is coming, and winter after that. Louis doesn't let go of Harry as the wind buffets them back a step, jarring into the porch railings, and Harry is glad.

Harry wasn't supposed to be here this long. He was supposed to go in, figure out Louis' endgame, and take out his operation. He hasn't done any of those things.

And now he's on a new mission. To save a pen of goats.

Groovy.

This is not what he was trained to do.

"Do you see either of them?" Louis shouts at him. The wind is whipping his hair all around, and the rain is soaking his shirt through.

"I can't see anything yet," Harry calls back. His shirttails cling to his skin. The entire world is a mass of wet gray.

The goat paddock is unsalvageable. Harry can tell that immediately. It's just wood and grass and mud all twisted together, collapsed on the ground.

"Shit," Louis mutters. "There should be six altogether."

"Should we split up?" No matter how much Harry distrusts Louis, he'd really rather not be alone in this storm. Luckily, Louis shakes his head almost before Harry's finished with the sentence.

"I don't want to have to wrangle six goats _and_ you."

"Where would they go?" Harry chooses to ignore the implication that he is at all wrangle-able. "If you were a frightened goat, where would you go?"

It doesn't take long to find the first. Petunia had been tied to the posts of the pen when it fell, and Harry only finds her because he trips over her hooves and she bleats a tiny whimper as he slips in the mud and falls.

"Found one!" Harry shouts. Louis is still right there, so he can obviously see, but the wind is so loud he might not have noticed.

"Is it alive?" Louis asks. He gets right down into the mud at Harry's side and starts lifting planks away.

"Yeah, for now." Harry can feel the knees of his pants soaking through as he carefully lifts the goat's head, checking for any shrapnel injuries.

She lets out a sound disturbingly close to the noises Lux makes when she's too tired to make it up the stairs on her own.

"What do we do?" Harry asks, looking over at Louis. He's keeping an eye out for the other goats while he pets Petunia's head to keep her calm.

"Let's see if anything's broken or if she's just stuck or – anything else." Louis is good at projecting calm, even when his hands are shaking.

Harry feels down the goat's legs, listening intently for any sharp cries to indicate a broken bone.

She keeps mewling, but when Harry's hands come away wet, it's only rainwater and mud. He's more relieved than he should be. Harry's had human beings die right in front of him, and his heart's in his throat over a goat.

"We could get her in the workshed," Louis suggests through gritted teeth. "Six would fit in there, wouldn't they?"

"Have you found the others?"

"I can see one," says Louis. "But we'll find the others as long as they're not out here too long. They won't go far."

The last plank lifts and Harry heaves Petunia out of the mud she's sunk into like it's quicksand. As soon as she can get any footing, she sticks her chin out and bleats at the top of her tiny voice. Louis winds the rope away from her neck and she takes off like a shot, slipping and limping across the wet grass as she calls for Molly.

"Get her into the shed," Louis calls, making a beeline for the other goat that Harry can see feebly making its way toward them through the rain. "I'll be right behind you."

Harry bends down and hoists a struggling Petunia into his arms. Her heart is fluttering like a hummingbird, but that's a relief compared to the opposite. Harry looks after Louis, his hair plastered to his eyelashes. "Are you sure you will?"

Louis stops and looks over his shoulder at Harry with soft eyes under his bangs. "Yeah, swear."

Harry doesn't trust him.

But he thinks for this, he does.

He does trust Louis with his sisters. He shouldn't, and he isn't going to stop being watchful, but they're out in this storm clutching panicky goats because Louis will do anything for those girls.

Petunia is squirmy and wet and furry and she smells like, well, a goat, but Harry keeps clutching her tight as he tries to make his way quickly toward the shed.

Even though they're only yards apart, it feels like it takes ages to battle against the wind and make it to the heavy wooden door.

Inside, the wind whistles through tiny holes, but it's mostly dry, and it's not whipping Harry around like he's weightless.

It feels alien to be on steady ground again. Harry stumbles and just barely manages to put Petunia down before they both tip over.

He skins the side of his hand. It stings, but there are still goats out there to be saved, and Louis is right behind him.

Molly is so crusted in mud, she looks like she's wallowed the way a pig would. The twins normally groom the goats like they're show ponies.

"I got as much off of her as I could." Louis' voice is gruff. "Once we get the others in, they'll clean her up themselves."

"God, they are still out there, aren't they?" Harry aches all over.

"Yeah, four more." Louis looks as hesitant as Harry does. "The girls would never forgive me if I didn't at least try."

Harry nods wearily. "I'm here as long as you are."

"Okay. Good." Louis lets out a sigh, visibly steeling himself. "Let's get the rest of them."

Petunia and Molly are so busy murmuring and grooming each other with nuzzles that they don't even notice the doors being shut again to pen them in.

"Where to?" Harry has to shout again. The rain hasn't let up any.

"Think we'll have to just systematically search the perimeter," Louis yells back.

_Interesting._

He follows Louis' lead, making sure to keep him within his sights at all times even through the thick downpour. He's not sure where exactly the borders of the property are, though this is a good way to find out.

The way Louis directs him is more... authoritative, than Harry's yet seen. He seems most in his element in the forest, breaking aside the violently swaying tree limbs and scouting out the obstacles in the distance while assessing the targets of the goats.

Harry's seen it before.

At some point, Louis has had military training.

Why isn't there a record of him? That's one of the things SSA Grimshaw really stressed when they were training Harry for the mission, _Tomlinson is an unknown quantity_.

He'd be a known quantity if he was military. That would've been one of the first things they checked. Why does nobody know this?

And why does he let _Tom_ stay here?

So many questions and not an answer to be found. It's not as though he can ask, either. He'll keep his guard up, like he said he was going to, and that's all he can do.

They find another goat hiding behind a downed tree, shaking and terrified.

"Hey, sweetheart," Louis coos, all country farm boy again, soft, not a hint of dominance in his stance now. He crouches down and checks over the goat for injuries. "How'd you get all the way out here, silly girl? Come on, let's go to your babies."

"What's her name?" Harry asks, keeping his movements slow so he doesn't startle her. "Is she okay?"

"Jo," Louis says, and a smile plays on his lips even as lightning crackles over the treetops and there is _nothing_ to smile about. "She seems fine, just shaken. We'll check their hooves after we get back to the shed."

"Do you want me to take her?" Harry offers. "You know the area better, you'd know better where to look."

Louis just stands and unwinds the rope he'd taken off Petunia. "I think we should stick together. We can keep them in pairs, unless the other three are holed up together."

"That sounds like a good idea," Harry admits. And it was smart of Louis to keep the rope. Calculated, even.

He's a good strategist.

There _must_ be a record of him somewhere. The only way the FBI couldn't access it would be if Louis had been part of the CIA. It would explain a fair bit, if Louis had been a spy. And their two agencies aren’t exactly on the friendliest of terms.

It would just also mean that Harry might be wasting his time here.

"Where'd you learn to wrangle goats?" he asks, calling over the wind. Maybe Louis' distracted enough to tell him.

"This isn't the first storm we've had up here," Louis replies. Simple. Reasonable. Harry doesn't believe for a second that's how he learned to do this.

"Oh," Harry says. He pats the braying goat's muzzle soothingly as Louis ties the rope around its shoulders. "Well, it's smart. Doing a grid search," he tries.

Louis' head snaps up.

Harry ducks his head like he's blushing. "I read it in a paperback."

When he peers up through his wet, tangled hair, Louis' eyes are narrowed, his head tilted, his mouth set. He looks more dangerous than Harry's ever seen him.

But then he smiles, laughs, goes back to tying his knot. "Big reader, are you?"

"I like reading," Harry says, and doesn't understand the defensive jolt in his chest. He _does_ like reading. "Kerouac and that. My mom hated it."

"I don't know how anybody could hate reading." Louis jerks the makeshift lead once to make sure it'll stay, then winds the other end around his hand.

"Oh, she didn't hate reading, just all the paperbacks and travel stories and such," Harry says. "They're pulpy."

"They're words," Louis reasons. "Words are worth something even if they're nonsensical, or if you disagree with them. You still learn something about people."

He pats the goat firmly on its flank and it startles a little, taking a few stumbling steps. Harry does, too.

"She can walk, I think." Louis is barely audible. "She's always been one of the stronger ones."

He hands Harry the loose end of the rope and beckons him to follow as they continue on with the search.

The next goat they find isn't so lucky. Trapped beneath a tree, it's taking in shallow breaths when it can manage to take in any air at all.

The doeling on the end of Harry's rope gives an anguished bleats and tugs on her restraint, but Louis just kneels down next to the dying male.

"George, you don't have to watch this," he calls over his shoulder, as softly as he can over the wind. "And keep _her_ calm."

Harry does need to watch. Louis gives saving it a fair try – he lifts the tree a few inches, but beneath it, the animal's side is a mangled mess. But then faster than Harry would have expected, with his face near the goat's ear to murmur soothingly, Louis snaps its neck.

Automatically, Harry flinches backward, his hand scrambling to his side. But there's nothing there, and he knows – _knows_ – that it was the right thing to do, that there was no way to save the goat. The goat in his arms is still bleating, and he soothes her as best he can, his thoughts whirring.

That isn't something people just... learn. They learn it _from someone_. And they practice it on someone _s_.

Louis Tomlinson is a dangerous man, no matter how kind he is to his sisters, no matter how much he smiles or has a spring in his step. He is dangerous.

He heaves the tree over, rolling it off of the dead animal, and then lifts it to carry over his shoulders. It's still raining so hard that his hair won't even be full of gore.

Louis keeps his head bowed as they start walking again.

Harry doesn't try to talk to him. There's really nothing he can say.

Plus, the goat on the leash is agitated every time thunder rolls – which is near-constantly – and it's all Harry can do to keep a handle on her. The wet fiber of the rope is cutting into his newborn calluses.

They deliver her to the shed, and Louis carefully tips the dead goat from his shoulders, settling it on the ground with such gentleness that one would think it was still alive. His hands are streaked with red.

He leaves them palm-up in the air instead of wiping them on his jeans. He blocks off the body from its kin with some of Tom's wood scraps. "We'll move him after we've found the last two. Take him out back for Zayn to butcher. I don't want the girls to see."

"Are you going to tell them?" Harry asks. His voice has gone quiet. It's easier to hear in here away from the rain.

"Have to," he says. "But they don't need to see it."

"Course not." Harry coughs. "Sorry for your loss," he says, awkward and stilted. It feels odd, but it's sort of like when Gemma's cat died. It's never nice, a dead pet.

But they didn't _eat_ Mr. Wuffles.

Louis half-smiles, half-frowns. Talented. "Thanks," he says shortly. He stands, wiping his hands against each other, smeared with dirt and blood. "Let's get the rest of them."

When they get outside, Louis takes a minute to let the sheets of rain wash his hands clean.

If only it were always that easy.

"We'll check the east side now. They might've gone in the same direction as the wind in the hopes that they'd get away from it." Louis shoves sopping wet hair from his eyes.

Harry follows as Louis tracks their bounty. Every once in a while, he offers an explanation of his method, but mostly, he just tracks. And he's good.

At least as good as people Harry's worked with. Better than probably half of them.

It doesn't take nearly as long to find the next pair, who seem fancy-free and uncaring about the storm as one of them is mounted on the other up against a tree stump.

Louis snorts. "Typical," he mutters, which makes Harry think this might not be the first time he's caught them like this.

He snaps his fingers, but they're so wet it makes no noise. "Oh, come on. Oscar! Felix! Quit!"

"Oscar and Felix?" Harry asks, jumping a little when Louis claps instead of snapping.

"Like the Odd Couple," Louis mutters. He takes two steps towards the goats, and then back again. "Come on, goats. I'm wet and I want to go home."

The goats pay them no mind. They're perfectly happy as they are.

Louis scrubs his forearm over his face. "They're fine. They'll find their own way home. Fuck it. George, let's go. We have enough to deal with."

Harry glances back at the goats once before he follows after Louis. He's right, they've got more important things to do, and Harry's soaked to the bone and freezing.

Even the animals here are weird.

Granted, he's never met goats before he came here. Maybe all goats are like that.

(But then, he reasons, there wouldn't really be any more goats.)

They check on the other goats, and Petunia is helping to lick Molly clean, though it's not helping as much as she might hope.

Mostly, Petunia's just eating mud.

Molly is placidly drinking milk from the rescued dam's pink underbelly, her trauma of being lost utterly forgotten. They're sweet, for goats. 

It makes the sight of the dead male all the worse as Louis hoists it up over his shoulders to bring to the house for butchering.

"Keep the twins away from the back of the house," he instructs. "And tell Zayn to meet me there, okay?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "I will."

"Thank you." Louis smiles, more a twitch of the lips than anything, ducking his head as he exits the door. Harry notices that he moves deliberately to stay out of the line of sight of anybody who might want to look out the front door.

The twins swarm Harry as soon as he opens the door.

"Are Molly and 'Tunia okay?" asks Daisy in one breath.

"Where's Louis?" Phoebe-Sunshine asks at the same time.

"Molly and Petunia are fine." At least he can honestly say that. He smiles, trying for reassurance. "Louis will be back soon."

"Really?" Phoebe has her hair in her mouth again.

Harry gives her a little tickle around the ribs. "Yes, really. Molly fell in some mud, but Petunia is helping her clean up."

"And they didn't blow away?" asks Daisy, giant eyes looking at him pleadingly.

"They didn't blow away," Harry promises. "They're in the barn right now having some milk."

"Can we go see them?" is Phoebe-Sunshine's next question, her hand tugging at Harry's shirt.

"Not until the storm stops!" Harry says, and boops the end of her nose. "It's horrible outside."

"But you're okay? And the goaties and Louis?" Daisy's hand is clutching her sister's, and has been since Harry got inside. He wonders how long they were out there.

"Louis is okay, too." Harry splits the difference. "He'll be back in just one minute, I promise."

He gets two giant hugs from either side, and identical squeals in each ear.

He rubs both twins' backs. "I need to go upstairs, little ones. I'm all wet."

"Thank you for saving the goaties!" Phoebe-Sunshine gives him a rather wet kiss on the cheek, and then she and her sister run back to Perrie, clamoring for attention. Perrie is actually awake, as well, which is odd, recently.

She's waiting for them by the door of the kitchen, looking rumpled and pale and storybook-like. 

Harry would go over and talk to her, but he's really starting to feel the cold now, and he's dripping all over the floor. “Perrie, could you please tell Zayn that Louis needs him on the front porch?”

There's a pile of warm woolens upstairs, thanks to Perrie- and Jesy's knitting, and Harry can't wait to put on a soft sweater.

He's sure he leaves a trail behind him as he heads up the stairs. He'll clean it up as he comes back down, but right now he just can't be bothered.

It would be glorious to have running hot water. Later, he'll boil himself a bath, but for the moment, dry clothes will do.

And a towel. A towel sounds like the pinnacle of comfort right now.

Harry strips off his wet, heavy shirt and flings it to the floor with disgust. It smells like mud and blood and wet fornicating goats.

It splats when it hits the floor. He'll be sure to clean that up as well, or Jesy will give him dark looks for a week.

It's been such a long day.

He digs in the laundry drawer where he knows there's a bath towel and wipes the freezing water from his arms and shoulders. He already feels better.

He winds a second towel around his hair like he'd always seen Gemma do when they were younger.

He's never had hair long enough to do it with, and now he does. It's as fun to do as it looks.

His pants peel off, sticking to his skin uncomfortably, but he finally feels like he can breathe once they've joined the pile of his shirt.

He closes his eyes and relishes the freedom of his liberation from wet denim. Being naked feels good.

He should dry off more, put on a nice sweater, but for a minute, it's just nice to not be wearing anything.

"Taking some inspiration from the Odd Couple, huh?"

Harry jumps, and yet again, his hand goes sliding down his side. That's twice today he's slipped up. This storm is throwing him off his game and he doesn't like it. At least this time, he thinks his general flailing limbs might have covered it up.

Louis is staring, blatantly, level with where Harry's bum was until he'd spun around. Now Louis' gaze is rather somewhere... else.

Harry tries to make it look natural when he grabs the towel to dry himself off more. "Oh, uh, how'd it go with the goat?"

Louis shrugs. "Well as it could. It might not be edible, way the blood drained. Zayn's good, though, and he'll salvage what he can."

"Are you planning on telling the twins what they're eating when the time comes?" Harry grabs a sweater, one Jesy made, he thinks, and tugs it on over his head. He instantly feels warmer, even though he's still not wearing anything on the bottom.

He should fix that.

Louis gives him an odd look. "I'll be honest. They're old enough to know."

Harry shrugs, searching for another pair of pants that aren't too short or for someone much thinner than him. "I don't know how much you keep from them," he says. It's very honest. More honest than he probably should be.

"Only what should be," Louis says. "Everyone knows what they should, and nothing they don't need."

Well, that's cryptic and vaguely threatening, isn't it? Harry shrugs again, his back twinging. Sleeping on the floor really is no good for him. "That's your call to make. I don't want to overstep anything."

Louis smiles at him. "Not at all. Spare the grisly details of his death, if you don't mind, but."

_Don't tell them I killed him_. Harry can read the implication well enough.

"I just think they'd be upset that he was trapped beneath that tree for god knows how long," Louis mutters. " _I_ feel bad."

"At least the actual end was easy for him." And now Harry's trying to comfort his target. Great. A wonderful life. "You couldn't do any more than you did."

Louis shrugs. He still isn't taking off his wet clothes. Is he waiting for Harry to leave? "Doesn't make it easier, though, does it?"

Harry finally finds a pair of pants that don't fit him in all the wrong ways in all the wrong places. "No," he mutters. He knows that feeling well. "I guess it doesn't."

Louis nods and watches quietly as Harry dries his hair out as best he can.

Finished, Harry proffers the towel. "Need this?"

Louis smiles. Harry's not sure what it means. "Yeah, thanks."

Before Louis bends to tie the towel around his own hair, he pats Harry's shoulder, fingers curling around the bulge of bicep for just a moment. "Jade has a big pot of mulligan stew going downstairs," he murmurs. "Go have something to eat and just relax. You were great out there."

"Thank you," Harry says, and something in Louis' voice makes him almost add 'sir' at the end. When you're used to being commanded, the right tone of voice can take you right back to the academy.

He buries it in a cough. He should stay, wait, see what it is Louis is hiding under those clothes. Maybe it's a regiment tattoo. Maybe it's a _Russian_ tattoo.

But he can't figure out a way to do that without being suspected of something else, so he just quietly exits the room.

When he reaches the kitchen, the rain is still lashing the windows. Candles are lit to keep the room in a soft orange glow. The twins are both cuddled into Perrie's sides, and it looks like Daisy is putting up a valiant fight to stay awake until Louis returns, although Phoebe-Sunshine's succumbed to sleep now that she knows her goat is safe. Lux is wide-eyed, though, as she drinks from Lou's breast beside them, and Tom keeps one arm around both of his girls, the other hand dipping up stew on a hunk of rough bread.

Niall still looks a little uneasy, with the storm battering the windows, so once Harry has a bowl of stew, he takes a seat by him. Niall seems fairly harmless so far, and he won't prod Harry into conversation.

"Hungry?" Harry offers, sliding his bowl over a bit.

He gets a grin from Niall, even if his face is still waxy. "I think this'll be the only time you'll get a no from me in answer to that question." He holds a hand to his stomach. "Don't much like storms."

Harry nods and dips his bread into the stew. It's just 'things from cans mixed together with water,' but it smells divine in weather like this.

It doesn't taste half bad, either. Meatier than he might've expected, with different kinds of beans, and it warms him as it slides down to his stomach.

(It would be good with real meat, too. The thought floats through Harry's mind that he hopes Zayn can save most of the goat, and he feels as guilty as he does hungry.)

He doesn't even know what the goat was called. He doesn't know if that makes it better or worse.

Probably, for eating it, better. For being part of this community, maybe a bit worse.

Niall sighs beside him, tapping the end of his cane on the floor. "Starting to get colder out," he mutters. "I hate the winter. Makes m'leg seize up more than it usually does."

"My sister broke her arm when we were kids, and it still pains her whenever it rains." Harry chases a chunk of canned hamburger patty around the bowl with his spoon.

"Heal wrong?" Niall asks. He slips the wooden stick up into his lap, exhaling on a wince. "That's what did mine, I think. Didn't heal straight and can't no more unless I re-break it."

"I don't know," Harry says. "I was really little when it happened. I mostly just have issues with my back, myself."

Niall makes an agreeable sound. "Y’mentioned. Can't help, sleeping on wood. That an injury or a medical thing?"

Harry swallows some soup. "I had a really heavy paper round as a kid."

That makes Niall laugh, for some reason. He nudges Harry's side with a bony elbow. "Didn't we all."

Louis comes clattering down the stairs, finally, in a clean shirt buttoned up to his neck as usual.

Harry wants to know what's under his shirt with a fierceness that surprises him. What is Louis hiding? Well, the answers to that would fill a book, probably, but Harry wants to know the reason for the button-up shirts. He'd worn them in August and he's still wearing them now, so it can't be for warmth, or comfort. Why keep them buttoned so high when everybody else here dresses like a hippie on their way to a hippie parade?

Even Harry doesn't wear his shirts buttoned so high. Even _Liam_ doesn't, back in Virginia. Well, when they're off-duty.

Questions and more questions. Harry will figure Louis out one of these days.

The twin still awake flops off Perrie's lap and flings herself at Louis. He catches her like she's paper and lifts her up in strong arms, rubbing her back as he shuffles over to the stove to get some food of his own.

They trust him so much, so thoroughly. He has no doubt they believed with all their little hearts that Louis would save all the goats he could. And Harry can't dispute that fact.

As long as the two randy goats do wander back home in the morning, all of the animals that could have been saved were. It reminds Harry of the time back in Sunday school when Gemma tried to explain to him that Noah didn't save the dinosaurs because they were too big to walk up the stairs. _You can't save something that doesn't want your help, Harry._

As far as Harry can tell, the people here don't want to be saved. But it's his job to save them anyway, and he's going to do it as well as he can.

Louis dips up a bowl of soup. He accepts the hunk of bread Zayn passes to him when he settles down in a chair at the table, little sister in his lap, even though everyone else is huddled on the floor. 

Louis roughly kisses the side of his sister's head. "Budge up, sweet pea. I need my hand back to eat without spilling on you."

Stubbornly, she clings on, her eyebrows drawing together. "I missed you while you were saving the goaties."

Louis nudges her ear with the end of his nose. "You never have to miss me. I'm always nearby, and I'm always coming back."

"Promise?" she asks with all the skepticism a child can muster.

It makes Harry's chest hurt. Eventually, maybe next week or maybe next year, Louis _won't_ be coming back to her. And it's his job to make sure that happens.

Louis doesn't know that, though. So he touches her nose with his free finger, and promises.

As everyone else drifts into sleep, only occasional rustlings from Zayn or Tom as they get up to fix more food, an air of security and calm weaves through the room just because Louis is back and safe. Harry is alone with the knot in his stomach.

Even when the rain slows down and eventually stops altogether, only a few drip-drip-drips sounding from outside the window, that knot won't go.

Louis eases the sleeping ragdoll of little girl into Zayn's arms before he goes to stand at the window again and look back in the direction of the destroyed paddock. Harry watches him, eyes shining in the dark.

Harry knows what it's like to feel watched, and it doesn't surprise him when Louis turns and gives him a look over his shoulder. 

"Felix and Oscar are back," he reports softly. "Stop worrying, George. Go to sleep."

That's not what he was worried about. And it's not all that reassuring. But the knot in Harry's stomach incredibly, amazingly, loosens just a little.

His back will be worse than ever in the morning. But he does rest his head against Jesy's shoulder, and he falls asleep.

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	5. Chapter Five

The next morning is gray and dreary and everything outside is still damp, and his back does hurt more than it did the day before, but he's awoken by a weight roughly equivalent to three bowling balls jumping onto his stomach and a squealing female voice saying, "Georgie, we gotta fix the pen for the goaties!"

A tiny hand smacks him in the nose with strength he is sure Lux does not realize she has. "Ghosts! Uppy!"

Another giggling mass settles on his legs, pinning him down so that he couldn't fix a goat pen if he wanted to.

Harry grunts and opens his eyes. Sunlight streams through the windows, right into his eyes, and he blindly pats the first little blonde head he finds. "Alright, alright. 'M up."

"Ghosts!" Lux shouts again, frighteningly close to his ear.

Harry blinks, flinching away, and then Lux is lifted into the air and away from his ear.

"Okay, sillybilly, let's let George wake up," Tom murmurs. "Daisy, Sunshine, get off him. He can't help you if his legs are broken."

More giggling, and then the weights on his legs and chest have moved and he can breathe again. No guarantees yet on walking.

His eyes are crusty when he rubs them. His hair feels greasy and there are doubtless bits of twigs and chunks of mud caught in the ends.

His hair hasn't felt truly clean since the day he arrived here. It's all just more of the same.

He sucks a breath in through his teeth and looks up. Breakfast is bustling, Jesy at the stove dipping up milquetoast made from last night's bread.

"Up, are you?" she asks fondly, her hands still moving even as she gives him a onceover. "Sleep well?"

"Slept okay," Harry grunts. When he pushes himself up, his back cracks across what feels, and sounds, like every vertebra.

It's so loud that Jesy winces, gesturing at him with a wooden spoon. "That sounds pretty bad. You should ask Leigh to have a look at you. She's good at sorting out that sort of thing."

Harry lifts his arms, slowly, and stretches out his shoulders. "I tried asking her about it a while ago, but she said she doesn't think she can help."

"Hm. That's weird, spinal stuff is sort of her specialty." Jesy shrugs. "Come help me with this, would you?"

Harry nods, pained, and shuffles over to where she stands at the stove. It's a cool enough morning that the steam feels good: last night's storm must have brought in the first wave of autumn.

"I need to get a sauce going, so you can do this part while I start on that." She kisses his cheek and leaves him to it, the rattle of pans in the cupboard beneath the sink showing where she's gone.

Harry makes sleepy noises as he takes the wooden spoon and stirs the bread and some milk down into a fine mush. It's edible the way it is, but he's glad when Jesy takes down a jar of preserved apples and pours them into a pan to warm.

"Glad the storm's passed," Jesy comments as she stirs. "We'll get more, this time of year, but that one was worst than most."

"What about in the winter?" Harry asks. He keeps stirring, shifting his achy back. "Are there a lot of blizzards?'

"Not many. We're too far from water, I think. Get a good amount of snow, though, and sometimes the pipes freeze."

"Great."

"Dorge!" Lux attaches herself to his leg, her smudgy morning face pushed into his knee. "Ghosts!"

"Yeah, we're fixing the goat pen later," says Harry. He's not positive on that, but the twins seemed pretty sure, and he'll help with what he can.

"I'm surprised she's remembered this long," Tom comments, taking the bowl of apples and syrup that Jesy offers. "Come on, Luxy, leave Georgie alone."

"I think she's sad about Herbert," Daisy explains, and whisks Lux off Harry's foot.

Herbert. Was that the goat's name? It's a very good name for a goat.

Harry looks over his shoulder at the twins. "Are _you_ sad about Herbert? We did try to get him, but he got hurt by a fallen tree."

"No," Phoebe-Sunshine says. "I mean, yes. But we helped him when he was alive, by feeding him, and now he's dead and going to help keep us alive. With his meat."

"That's a very mature way to look at it." Harry's not sure he knows many adults who would take the death of a pet this well.

Phoebe-Sunshine sniffles a little wetly, but nods with a staunch chin.

Her sister gives her a hug, which is good as Harry had just been about to abandon his post to do the same.

She speaks a bit of twin-gibberish and they nuzzle their heads together.

"Breakfast'll be ready soon, go wash your hands, the pair of you," Jesy says, shooing them away as she spoons the apples into a bowl. "Luxie, where is your mother?"

Lux throws her arms up and shakes her head, an adorable look of exasperated consternation on her face. "I dunno!"

"Let's find her, shall we?" Jesy scoops Lux up and hefts her with one arm. "George, you can get everything to the table, can't you?"

It's easy enough, especially with the twins' help. By the time everything is plated and at the table, so is everyone else, save Louis, Tom, and Zayn, who must be surveying the damage outside. When Louis and Tom come in through the back door, they both have dirt on their necks. Zayn is still missing.

"Better than I expected," announces Louis, dishing himself up some of the food. "The goat paddock got the worst of it, I think, but with a little hard work we can manage the repairs."

"We need to do some work on the porch, too. That hole is back and we'll get another skunk down there," Tom adds.

"Ewie!" Lux agrees, pinching her nose as Jesy carries her back into the kitchen. "Stunks stunks."

"That's right." Tom kisses her head, and then Lou's mouth. "Skunks stink."

They're a cute little family, Harry thinks, watching them interact. They seem so happy here. And why shouldn't they? As far as he can tell, nobody is making them stay.

"George," Louis says, stirring him, "Come sit next to me."

That seat is usually reserved for Zayn. At the moment, he’s nowhere to be found, probably outside already dealing with preserving poor Herbert.

It's a prestigious seat, and Harry's not sure if he's imagining it, but it seems like there are many people watching as Harry sits down.

Louis pats Harry's shoulder. "You did really well last night, George. And today, I'd like for you to help me repair the goats' paddock, since they know you now."

"Even though you've seen how good I am at building?" This is good, he'll get to be alone with Louis again. It’s easier, when it's just the two of them.

"That's why I'd like your help, too," Louis says. "Need to get you up to speed, city boy."

"Oh. I'd be honored, then." Harry smiles, dipping his spoon into a bit of apple. "Thank you."

Back home, Harry's breakfasts are usually a cup of coffee and a slice of Wonderbread toast. He'd never choose this. But he's beginning to forget why. He can feel the warmth of the apple mush from when he swallows all the way down into his stomach.

It's a preview, he's sure, of the sort of fare to come all winter. Preserved, canned, pickled, made from leftovers. But it's hearty, and the kids look healthy. He can't complain.

Honestly, they're taking better care of him here than he took care of himself back home.

It's a strange thought. But it must be true of them all, or they wouldn't be here.

"Don't worry," says Louis. Is Harry imagining the tease in his voice? "It's just wood and nails. What could go wrong?"

An hour later, Harry's screaming muscles and the sweat pooling in the small of his back beg to answer the question with _everything_.

"How're you doing, Georgie?" Louis asks, casually hefting another piece of lumber. "Grab the other end of this, would you?"

Harry can't help grunting with despair as he takes the other end of the massive log. It's not even a plank; it's a log. Louis is hell-bent on teaching Harry to split the raw wood from yesterday's felled trees into usable boards.

He has no idea how Louis is still wearing his shirt buttoned up to the neck and barely panting.

He must have incredible muscles under those clothes.

Not that Harry's looking for them.

"How much more do we need?" he asks, heaving the log up and over and nearly falling over backwards himself.

"We should split as much as we can so it doesn't rot," Louis says. "And then while they're drying a bit, we can eat lunch and come back out to repair the paddock itself."

"Right, right," says Harry. He'd forgotten that they really haven't done any of the actual work yet, just cutting and chopping and chopping and cutting the wood.

If he'd thought his hands were blistered before, then he was kidding himself. His blisters have blisters. Maybe this isn't a position Louis gave him out of gratitude; maybe it's some sort of punishment.

He's covered in sweat and old rainwater and woodchips, and all his muscles hurt. It reminds him of his first days of training.

Louis, on the other hand, is the epitome of proficiency with the hatchet in his hand. He swings back and brings the blade down on the short end of the wood and it splits evenly, two halves peeling away from each other inches down deeper than Harry could have _sworn_ the steel landed. It doesn't take Louis more than four hacks to get any of the logs broken down.

"How are you doing that?" he finally asks, setting his hands on his knees and breathing deep and even. "Is there a trick to it?"

Louis wipes his forehead on the back of his wrist before he answers, which is a relief. At least he isn't wholly unaffected. "Just practice, George. You'll get it."

"Will I?" Harry says doubtfully. "We've been doing this a long time."

"But only for a day," Louis says. He bends down and tips up the Mason jar of water they're sharing, pouring a little into his mouth as most douses his face. He twists his long hair into a knot atop his head. "There's nothing worth doing that comes in a day."

"I can think of a few things," Harry mutters under his breath. A good meal. A good movie. A good fuck.

He's out of breath, his hands hurt, his back is on the verge of giving out completely, and he's exhausted.

He's pretty sure this is not worth doing. The goats will be just fine roaming the plains of New Hampshire paddockless.

They're fine right now, just tied to a post as the little girls flit around and groom them with a bucket of warm water with a little laundry soap and some big scrub brushes. Lux looks like she's been bathed as much as any of the goats, her hair and dress completely soaked. The twins are patient, though, as she makes a mess with her soft sponges scrubbing at the goats' flanks.

"How long did the old paddock take to make?" Harry asks before doing his best to split a piece of wood in one stroke like Louis. He nearly gets wood splinters in his eye.

"A few days," Louis says. "But I was on my own, then."

"It should go faster with two of us then?" Harry asks, shoving his mass of hair from his face. He's started breaking out on his forehead again, which he hasn't done since he was a rebellious teenager wearing his hair down and on the longer side.

That's before he was sent away, and it was buzzed off to regulation.

"Yeah, of course," Louis responds. "Any job goes faster with more people doing the work."

He offers Harry the Mason jar. "It's all about teamwork, George. Nobody can do it all alone."

Harry takes as deep a drink as he can stand. The water isn't very cold, not anymore, but it's liquid and soothing and it makes his head feel less swimmy.

He _hates_ feeling weak and useless. This is not what he was made for. This is not how he was built. Harry Styles is not _soft_.

He can chop up wood and build a goat pen and keep from falling over while he does it. He's not useless. He can do this.

He stands a little straighter. He can deal with blisters.

"Just aim a bit before you swing," Louis advises. "Make sure it's going straight into where you want or it'll splinter."

"Right," Harry says. Aim and shoot. That's all it is. He knows how to aim and shoot.

The next plank he hits, the hatchet goes straight through in one clean break.

Harry lets out a wild laugh, spinning around to make sure that Louis saw.

"Just like that, that's a good job, George," says Louis, tucking his hatchet underneath his arm to give Harry a round of applause. Over by the goats, Lux is clapping, too, but doesn't appear to be sure of why.

Warmth flushes through Harry's chest.

He's not sure why Louis' approval means anything at all to him, but that's the same feeling he gets when he's told that he's had a good shot on the range, or he's gotten through a tough case.

He's accomplished something and done it on its own. It's not unlike the feeling he's had when he makes a good, clean, well-deserved kill, but he tamps that down and doesn't think about it. That's never happened to George, and this accomplishment is his.

"I think I've got the hang of it now," he says. "Halfway through, but better than nothing, isn't it?"

"It is," Louis says. "You aren't halfway through anything if you've just begun."

Inspirational. Louis should write greeting cards or something.

Fortune cookies, maybe.

"I guess," Harry says, and laughs a little. "But then nothing's ever done, either. How do you know when something's finished?"

"There's an easy answer to that." Louis smiles back at him. "Nothing is ever really finished. It's only at intermission."

Harry's brow furrows. He watches as Louis splits another piece of wood.

"Then how can you ever feel satisfied?" Harry asks. "Isn't that the whole point of being out here? Getting some sense of... I don't know. Meaning?"

"It depends on what you're into, I think." Louis balances the point of the hatchet on another log and leans on it. "When you go see a play or a show or whatever, do you think ahead to the ending or are you just happy knowing there's more to come." He shrugs. "Guess it depends on if it's a good show or not."

Harry frowns and bends to drink some more water. 

This doesn't sound like the ideology Nick and Liam trained him to suss out. Louis isn't promising him anything. Not salvation, not riches, not an authority.

"I saw the Beatles live when I was seventeen," Louis says abruptly. His tone isn't offering Harry much. "You could barely hear them, there was so much screaming. Girls fainting everywhere, and the stage was pretty far from my seat, but what I could hear... I never wanted that concert to end. It wasn't perfect, and it wasn't what I was expecting, but I never wanted it to end. I guess that's how I see life, too. If I thought too much about what's gonna come next, I'd never pay attention to what's happening now."

"I'm jealous," Harry says mildly. When he was seventeen, he was still in the military academy. They weren't even allowed to listen to the radio, much less go gallivanting off to concerts. "My sister saw them when they were here, too. Sent me a picture."

"Maybe me and your sister were at the same show," Louis says with a smile. "Be a crazy coincidence, wouldn't it?"

"Only if you were in Chicago," Harry says. "But yeah, that would. I don't think real lives are like that, though, are they?"

"Nah." Louis shakes his head. "Mine was in New York, anyway. But it would've been funny if it had been the same one, wouldn't it?"

Harry shrugs. "Yeah, I guess. Do you believe in stuff like that? Fate?"

It takes Louis a moment to answer. "I think that sometimes people meet because the world knew they were supposed to," he says slowly. "I wouldn't call it fate, though. I just think sometimes coincidence isn't strong enough a word."

"So you think everyone here was destined to find you?" That's what he expected. Somehow, it's still a disappointment.

Louis shakes his head, though. "I think having the people here that I do is mostly down to chance and luck, honestly. Finding people, making friends, that just happens. Not a fateful thing about it. But sometimes there are people who are kind of meant to be, right? People who were supposed to know each other. You know?"

Harry frowns as he splits another, smaller, log. "I don't think I've ever met anyone like that, no."

"Neither have I," says Louis cheerfully. "But it's something to look forward to, if I do."

He steps back from the log pile and buries his hatchet in one of the old, broken posts from the former paddock. "I think that's about all for the morning. We'll come back after lunch for the build."

Harry does the same with his own hatchet, wiping his forehead with the bottom of his shirt. "Think we'll be able to finish it today?"

"I hope so," Louis says. "I don't like leaving the goats tied up if we can help it. They deserve better."

"They seem happy enough." Harry looks to where the goats are still getting their bath. It's been a very long bath, at this point.

Mostly it now seems to be a water fight between Daisy and Phoebe-Sunshine with Lux caught in the middle.

The goats don't appear to mind much. One of them is licking the water from a puddle on the ground.

Petunia already has a fresh chain of flowers crowned around her ears. There's a long red welt on her side from the collapsed paddock's sharp wood last night, and Harry is more grateful than a goat might deserve that she wasn't really hurt.

"They miss their pen," declares Louis. "They have more room to roam around and do goat things. I don't like having things around their necks."

Harry pauses to pet the mama goat's silky ear, and she stares up at him with a yellow-ringed, beady eye before bleating loudly enough to make him jump. "Yeah, alright."

"Come on, let's get lunch. Girls!" Louis raises his voice. "Time for lunch, but you'll need to dry off before you sit at the table, please."

"Did you hear Louis, Luxie?" Daisy asks, standing up and hoisting Lux onto her hip, "You need to get dried off."

Lux squirms, a plaintive _no_ sound that makes Harry nearly say that it doesn't matter if she gets some of the chairs wet, does it?

Louis touches the tip of Lux's small nose as he strides past. "It's too cold for you to be wet all day, little one. You'll get sick."

Lux's little face scrunches up, her mouth twisting like she's sucked on a lemon. " _No_ ," she repeats, sounding appalled.

"Yeah," Louis agrees, his own eyes round as nickels. "No being sick. Go find your momma and a towel, okay?"

Lux nods once, sadly, and toddles toward the house on her tiny squidgy legs, making faster time than Harry would've expected.

The twins follow her, chivvying encouragement when the stairs present the same obstacle as ever. Lux isn't quite able to get up them on her own, yet, but after Daisy gives her a little lift, she can pad her way up like a puppy.

"It's good that they get along," Harry murmurs. "Practically siblings after all, aren't they? I would've thought they'd be more jealous of the attention."

"Oh, no, why would they?" Louis asks. "They know how much I love them isn't affected by how much I love Lux. There's no cap on the love you can give."

"Not all siblings are like that, though. Especially that young, it'd be natural if they didn't understand that." Harry shakes himself from his thoughts. "It's just nice to see."

Louis smiles. "Well, how many people really get equal love from everyone they know?"

"Not many, not many at all." Harry gives Louis a hesitant smile in return. "It's a shame."

"It is," Louis agrees, and he kindly holds the porch door open for Harry, which is good since Harry probably couldn't summon the strength to do it himself at the moment. "That's the beauty of our family here. Everyone knows that they're loved and we have room to love more and more."

"If only the rest of the world worked that way," Harry sighs. A tendril of unease blossoms in his stomach. Sometimes, still, the way Louis speaks rings wrong to him, simply not the way an ordinary person would talk. A cult leader, yes, but an ordinary person, no. It's only sometimes, though, and Harry has yet to figure out if it's Louis' true colors shining through or just a phantom emotion he's evoking from himself.

Maybe Louis isn't malicious so much as... a little delusional, lulled into a sense of peace by this farmhouse that eludes the reality of 1976.

It is very easy to believe that your thoughts are rational when everyone around you hangs on your every word.

Even if what Louis was spouting was complete poppycock, Harry has the feeling there are people here who would back up the things he says.

"Well," Louis says lightly. He pats Harry's back and follows him through the door. "Maybe in due time."

Does Louis think that he's going to change the world? He won't. Harry knows that without really thinking about it. He has a job because of the hate and anger and jealousy in the world. Louis can talk all he wants about idyllic societies because he's in one, and never has to experience the other.

Harry's been there, on the front lines, trying to change things for the better. He's the one who's gone in to stop enforcers from breaking the fingers, or legs, of poor shopkeepers just trying to earn an honest living. Of people who will take women while they're still little girls and try to turn them into machines instead of human beings. Sure, the FBI fucks it up sometimes, like out at Wounded Knee, but Harry wasn't there, and he doesn't agree. He was still in the Academy when Nick and the rest were going head-to-head with the CIA for the good of the American people, but _that_ is something that makes the world a better place. Not... a few goats and some mulligan stew.

It's all bullshit. All of this is, and Louis can believe it if he wants; he can think that what he does here makes the world a better place, but it doesn't. It just gives him a place where he doesn't have to worry about real problems, in the real world.

There aren't any goat paddocks that need fixing in Virginia.

Well, there might be, but not in the parts of Virginia that make things happen.

"You alright?" Louis asks, one eyebrow raised. "You look... disgruntled."

"Back hurts a bit," Harry admits. "I'll be fine, though. Just haven't done this much lifting in... a while."

Louis smirks. "I knew Tom was going easy on you. Not to mention Jesy."

"That's _easy_?" asks Harry incredulously. It is easy, really, compared to the workload he usually has, but it wouldn't be easy for George.

"Of course!" Louis prances into the kitchen to make sure that Lux isn't running around getting water and soap everywhere. "By this time next year, we'll have you shingling the roof."

"I've never shingled before. Is it a lot of lifting?" Harry asks, watching Louis move. There's a nonchalant fluidity to him that's rather striking. The best agents in Harry's department have worked for years to move that smoothly.

"It's a lot of heavy pieces of tin and hot tar in the summertime." Louis relishes the idea like it's Shangri-La.

"Sounds fun," says Harry faintly. He can afford to be flippant; he won't _be here_ by the summertime if it's up to him. "Can't wait."

Louis slaps the back of Harry's shoulder and it shouldn't hurt, doesn't, really, but Harry grunts anyway. "It is fun. It's fun to finish a job well-done."

"I do like a sense of accomplishment." That's true, at any rate. When this paddock is finished, he's going to reward himself with a nice, long period of sitting down and maybe having a nap, if naps are allowed.

If there were some way to make ice cream here, that's what he'd do.

Perhaps the goats...? He'll figure it out later. Right now it's time for lunch, followed by more lifting and chopping and nailing.

His back twinges all the way to its roots as Harry eases himself into a chair at the long table.

"Are you really hurting? asks Louis. Harry hadn't thought he was paying much attention. "You cringed, just then."

"My back's always sore," Harry says. "It's just a bit agitated now."

"I'd let you sit out but we're almost done and I'd rather not do it myself." There are shades of sympathy in Louis' voice. "Shouldn't take more than today."

Harry nods and waves a hand. "It's alright. I'll survive this."

"Drink some water," Louis advises, plunking a glass down in front of Harry. "That'll help."

It's pleasantly cold, the water, or else Harry's just that hot.

Louis is humming now, tossing something with his hands in a large bowl. He seems chipper. Maybe he just really enjoys chopping wood.

"What are we eating?" Harry asks. One of the twins slips into the room and snuggles right up to Louis' ribs, her face pressed into his side. That must be Phoebe-Sunshine; Daisy is a little more bent on showing her independence.

"Thought we'd have a nice salad, since the nice weather'll only last so much longer." Louis is a professional, it seems, at cooking while attached to a child. He doesn't miss a beat.

"Oh." Harry's never been much for salads. Too much mayonnaise and gelatin. And, in the Italian restaurants in Chicago, entirely too much anchovy.

Though, he supposes there wouldn't really be mayonnaise here. It's not generally canned.

It's made of eggs, though. Possible. 

"My mother always made a salad with marshmallows," he offers. "And pieces of apple and nuts. And mayonnaise, of course."

Louis laughs. "I remember those 'salads.' This is not that."

It's not. When Louis plunks the big wooden serving bowl down on the table, it's full of rabbit feed.

Probably not literal rabbit feed. Harry wouldn't know. He's never had a rabbit. It looks like what he'd feed a rabbit, though, green and kind of leafy.

There's bits of orange, too, and it all has some sort of oil on it.

"What... is this?"

"Dandelion shoots and grated carrot," Louis says. "And some of Leigh-Anne's famous spicy pickling vinegar with a bit of chicken fat."

He sounds very proud. None of the words he's said should be in the order that he said them.

"It's good," Phoebe-Sunshine assures Harry. She pats him on the head like he's a pet she's fond of, but bored with.

"I'm sure it is," says Harry, though he's sure of nothing of the sort. It sounds horrifying, but then again, he's been eating here for weeks. Surely dandelion shoots won't be terrible?

"It's nice and light," Louis explains. "Since we're going back out in the sun."

"Right, that makes sense," Harry agrees. Louis has set another bowl down in front of him, empty, and Harry swallows before he serves himself some of the salad.

Phoebe-Sunshine grins at him from across the table. She has greenery stuck between her two front teeth.

Harry tips his fork at her, braces himself, and takes a bite.

It really isn't bad. It's not the best thing he's ever eaten, but it's miles ahead of the potato-and-peanut tomato aspic at the church picnic back in Cedar Rapids.

It's a bit peppery for his liking, but it's really not awful. Much better than he expected, which describes more than a few of his experiences here.

"Surviving?" Louis asks. He's eating his own way around the bowl, picking the carrots out of his dish and passing them to Phoebe.

"It's nice, I like it," says Harry. "I've never had this before."

"You can't eat it everywhere," Louis says. "But we don't use DHT."

"That's good," Harry comments. "I'm glad I'm not eating anything that, you know, I couldn't spell."

Zayn takes a seat next to Louis and shakes his head. "It's poison. They won't tell the rest of us for years and years, but DHT is going to poison our animals and our babies. You mark my words, the FBI or the CIA, they know already and they're sitting on it."

Harry almost laughs. He almost actually laughs out loud, but instead manages a solemn nod. "I bet they are," he says. "They know loads of stuff that they just don't tell us."

Zayn leans back in his chair and nods, hands spread. A small tattoo of a bird with wings in the glide of a raptor peeks out from the fleshy mound of his thumb. Zayn is covered in tattoos: military emblems and inside jokes and dark cover-ups for scars that wink from underneath. They're the scars of a POW. "Anyone who thinks there's transparency after Watergate is a fool."

"I don't know how anybody could think otherwise." Harry's smile is tight. He doesn't like to think about Watergate, and, to be honest, doesn't blame anybody who lost faith in the government afterwards. A bad job all around.

But he was on the right side. SSA Grimshaw, Nick, gets to ranting about it when he's had a few drinks at the Christmas party every year. He does a bang-up job of impersonating the CIA agents with big jowls, although he does give them Russian accents just to be rude.

"Please don't talk politics at the table, it's unseemly." Louis doesn't seem at all affected by the conversation, primly popping his fork into his mouth.

"I don't see much difference between politics and philosophy," Zayn says. "Or even religion, for some of those nuts out there."

"Well, let's keep them 'out there,'" Louis says more firmly.

Zayn looks like he'd rather argue the point, but then he takes a glance at Harry, subtly, and leans back in his chair. "Fine," he says, short and to the point. "My apologies."

Louis reaches around one of his sisters and squeezes Zayn's arm in placation.

It's a quiet meal, which Harry isn't used to, being here so far, but he understands it. Even though Zayn settles down after Louis silently reassures him, he still doesn't talk for the rest of lunch.

The twins eat with great relish, but Lux fusses and pushes her food around in its bowl until Lou finally relents and lets her nurse instead.

It's odd and tense and Harry doesn't like it. He was enjoying this day more when he was building the paddock, and he's not a big fan of lifting.

It's amazing how Louis' mood affects the mood of everyone under his wing.

Amazing, and worrisome. Worrisome because it's started affecting Harry, as well. Even as they finish and trudge back out to have another round with the goat pen, he finds himself feeling sulky and drained.

Louis ruffles Harry's hair once they're out the door. "Buck up, little Georgie. We've a goat-proof fence to build."

The good part of building a surprisingly large fence is that Harry’s muscles have never looked better. 

Even with how strenuous it is and how diligent the training regiments he’s on at home are, there’s nothing quite like building, lifting, and chopping to make your arms look like you belong in a comic book.

Jesy always seems pleased at the end of the day. Once, even Niall looked over right in the midst of Zayn kissing his way down his belly and whistled at Harry.

Even though Harry's been here for a while now, he's still not used to the idea that he participates in what must be technically acknowledged to be _orgies_. He hadn't really thought that the first time was a fluke, or a one-off, but he also hadn't thought that he would be here all that long, so it hadn't concerned him much.

Now, though, he's still here and they're still happening and he's still a part of them. This isn't how he'd anticipated his life turning out when he'd been transferred to the agency.

For the most part, he makes his peace with it by sticking with Jesy. Every once in a while, she flits off to Jade or Leigh-Anne, which is... interesting.

Though everybody here has a partner or two that they stick to most nights, he's noticed that nobody is really off-limits to everybody else. Well, except for Louis, but that's a given.

He still doesn't understand how Perrie can watch Zayn with Niall. They came here together. They're like Lou and Tom, aren't they, they're a _real couple_ , as far as Harry can tell. His brain doesn't know how to stretch to include Niall in that.

With Jesy and Jade, or Jesy and Leigh, it's _sometimes_. When she's not with Harry, she'll go off with one of the others. But it's very rare that Perrie and Zayn and Niall are not Perrie and Zayn and Niall. Sometimes it's Perrie and Niall and sometimes it's Zayn and Niall but most of the time it's just all three of them, and that shouldn't work, except it does.

Every once in a while, too, Tom might go off with Jade, or Lou will. But they have a _baby_.

Nothing here makes sense. Just when Harry thinks he's made sense of it, something will happen or somebody will do something that makes him realize he hasn't at all.

Once the big sleeping room's door is shut for the night, Jesy kisses Harry lightly and says, "You're on the prowl tonight, Georgie." Then she disappears into Leigh-Anne's arms.

When this has happened before, Harry's just waited until somebody took pity on him and came over to kiss him. Once it had been Lou, and the other time it had been Perrie, who had then offered to let him have Niall for the night. Harry had declined. He likes Niall just fine, thinks he's a swell person when it comes down to it, but he's seen far too much of the man already.

Harry stands near the door, still fully clothed, feeling a little awkward as everyone around him slowly disrobes, mingled fingers working buttons and long flowing fabrics.

It's a good thing that his whole persona rests on uncertainty and shyness, because it means people take pity on him without him having to do much work. He rubs his arm self-consciously and Lou appears out of nowhere, like a genie from a lamp.

She gives him a smile. "You lonely tonight, Georgie?"

Harry smiles back at her. He does like Lou, and as long as Tom doesn't mind, he doesn't have a problem if she's going to offer him a hand. "I am," he confirms.

"Well, come on," she says, and slides her hand down his collar to start unbuttoning his shirt. It doesn't take much; he's taken to only buttoning a few at the bottom anyway.

The shirt that Lou is wearing isn't buttoned, so he has to wait until his own is off to help urge hers over her head. Lou is beautiful, truly, and Tom is a lucky man.

Harry wonders vaguely if this is a test. He glances over to Louis, but he's just sitting where he always does.

He's not even looking in their direction, but in a way it feels very deliberate. Like he's _trying_ not to look over at them.

Or Harry's looking far too much into things, but he's learned to trust his instincts when it comes to things like this.

He slides his hands onto Lou's waist, just in case. He's not sure whether the correct answer is to take her or refuse her.

He's also not sure if the correct answer is really the correct one, or just the one that would make Louis happy. When Lou kisses him, he's of half a mind to keep watching Louis to see if it garners a reaction.

"Um," Harry pulls back. "Are you and Tom married?"

Lou tilts her head at him, a curious smile on her face. "We are," she says, drawing the phrase out so that it's a question in and of itself.

"Then – I don't want to cause trouble," Harry stammers.

That makes Lou laugh, a throaty bubbling up of amusement. "You're not, but you're darling to be concerned." She gives his hair a ruffle. "You really are a babe in the woods, aren't you?"

It's frustrating because Harry wants to say _no._ He's seen enough, done enough in his life that he can't with any authenticity say that he's innocent. But this?

"Maybe," he decides, looking down and then up at her from beneath his tangled mat of hair. She makes a sound that's frighteningly similar to noises he's heard her make at Lux whenever she's done something very cute.

"You don't need to worry about meddling in a relationship if they're truly in love," she says. "That's what I think. There's nothing you could possibly do to make me stop loving Tom."

Harry stammers. "That's not – I wasn't – I don't –"

"Don't worry," Lou murmurs. Her hands are soft and cool as she starts undoing his jeans. "I'm just saying that when two people are really in love, nothing can get between them. Not even your magnificent cock."

She says it with such matter-of-fact seriousness that Harry can't help but laugh, his hands covering his mouth as he's sure that laughing while somebody is... seducing you? is impolite, but Lou doesn't seem offended.

She even leans up and kisses his cheek again. "Now come on! Before I'm the one who gets jealous. Jesy's been hogging you."

Maybe that's what it is. Maybe everybody is just always able to be shared with each other, like sexy neighbors. Instead of asking to borrow a cup of sugar, you borrow somebody's wife.

That's... weird. He's heard about it, of course, key parties and such, but Gemma was always somewhat scandalized by it.

Gemma's not here, though. Thankfully. Very thankfully. So it doesn't really matter. When in Rome, after all, and if nobody's going to be hurt then he'll do his job and he'll do it well.

But Louis looks over to watch as Harry finally tilts his head to kiss Lou.

It's a nice kiss, but there's that preoccupation in the back of Harry's mind, as well, that awareness that he's being watched and probably graded on his performance. It's more nerve-wracking than passing his exams, because at least then he knew what he was being tested on.

He's still not really sure that he does know this material, since women are a subject he hasn't had much interest in studying.

He's got the opportunity now, though, and Lou's breasts are right there and she's warm and soft and offering, and even if he's not sure on some of the questions, he's always been good at bullshitting a pretty answer.

It's probably just that their names are so similar that he keeps thinking _Louis_ instead of _Lou_.

Even when he can't see Louis, he's very aware of him. Watching. Harry knows what it feels like when he's being watched, the hair on the back of his neck standing up, and Louis' eyes don't leave him the entire time he and Lou are intertwined.

Probably it should be Tom watching like a hawk, but instead Tom's already slumped asleep with his head pillowed on his arms.

And Louis is still staring. Harry doesn't recall Louis staring this intently, but maybe he wasn't paying enough attention, because it's very hard to ignore.

It makes him want to perform better. Really show Louis what he's got, what he can do.

He wants to impress him. Everybody here wants to impress Louis, but Harry has reasons. Harry has instructions, and if he wants to do his job to the best of his abilities, he has to be more impressive than anybody else here. He has to be in Louis' head like none of the others are.

He really digs his knees in. His thighs burn a little.

Louis is still watching him. Lou is pleased – he can tell that, sounds and the way she's reciprocating – but somehow Harry's still focused on Louis focusing on him.

He moans louder than he would normally, just making sure that Louis can distinguish him over the low din in the room.

It's unnecessary, it seems, since Louis' attention never leaves him anyway, but Harry wants to make sure. He wants Louis to _have_ to look at him.

By the time Lou flops to the floor, flushed down to her ribs and boneless, Harry's chest is roaring with pride.

Lou gives him a pat on his shoulder, releasing a sigh that sounds like it comes from her toes. "Might have to steal you from Jesy more often," she mumbles. "I've been missing out."

Harry grins, still trying to catch his breath. "Thanks, Loui–Lou."

His heart skips a beat but Lou doesn't pay any mind, giving his chest another pat. She rests her head on his shoulder, inhaling deeply and then letting the breath out as she relaxes against him.

Louis finally looks away, glancing over to where Niall and Zayn are softly touching Perrie.

Now it's Harry watching him, and he wonders whether Louis can tell like he can when somebody's eyes are on him. He hopes so.

Part of him expects something to change after that night, but it doesn’t. Louis doesn’t treat him any differently than he had before, as far as Harry can tell. He’s just as boisterous and loud, commanding and a little bit of a flirt, but no more than he was before.

Everything’s the same as it was, and it’s frustrating, that Harry still can’t figure out this person when it’s his job to do so. Louis doesn’t do anything suspicious at all for so long that it seems more and more likely that there is, in fact, nothing suspicious there to find.

And then he discovers the root cellar.

It’s nearly hidden over by foliage. If Harry hadn't been watching Louis all day, he never would've noticed it was there, but Louis' been looking shifty and Harry's been here almost a month and a half and he's starting to wonder if he's ever going to get anything on this guy more offensive than his smart mouth.

But a hidden underground bunker? That's payload. Harry will be on his way home by Monday.

It's a thought that pains him more than it should.

He tells himself, over and over as he sneaks off the porch, sneaks down the lawn, that he wanted to go home anyway. This is his job and he's doing it well.

It doesn't matter how much he likes Daisy and Phoebe-Sunshine and Lux, or Zayn and Perrie and Niall, or how sweet Jesy always is. It doesn't matter that it's nice to work quietly on something with tangible results, a dollhouse forming before his eyes on long afternoons with Louis.

None of that means anything because no matter how much Louis seems like a good guy, he's not a _good guy_. He's the bad guy and Harry's the good guy and this was always going to end up this way.

Louis looks over his shoulder before he pulls the doors of the root cellar open, and Harry quickly ducks behind an apple tree.

There's a sigh. "George, that was not smooth, man. I see you."

Harry stays silent. There's no use in giving himself away, if Louis fancies himself a test.

"Seriously, George, I can see your feet," Louis says. "And there's a wasp's nest in that tree above your head."

Shit, that's not where he wants to be. He ducks his head down, makes himself seem as small as he can, and scurries out from under the tree.

"There we are," Louis laughs. "So. You're up early."

"Please don't yell," says Harry quickly. One thing he's noticed in the past however many days is that Louis hates, absolutely hates it when Harry thinks Louis is about to hurt him. It's... inconsistent with how other abusive egomaniacs Harry's worked undercover with have treated their subordinates.

Like a switch has been flicked, Louis' smile drops and his eyebrows do, too, his whole face bunching together broodily. "Why would I yell? It's a beautiful Saturday morning."

"Because I'm not supposed to be here?" Harry says, his voice lilting up. "Because I followed you?"

Louis smiles. "If I left a trail for you to follow, I wanted you to take it. I know how to hide when I really want to."

Yeah, well, Harry knows how to find people when he really wants to. And usually they don't notice he's following them. He's losing his touch. He's been here too long. "I'm still sorry."

Louis takes two steps closer and shows his hands slowly, like that's proof he won't sucker-punch Harry, before settling a warm palm on Harry's shoulder. "Don't be sorry. I'm always happy to share my time with you, George."

"You... like to be alone, too, sometimes. I thought?" He's got a rather convincing stammer. He can take comfort in that. Louis thinks he's the only one with tricks.

"I can be alone with you," Louis says simply. "That's why I like you."

"Oh." Harry does feel a little bizarrely flustered by that. "Thank you."

Louis' grin turns mischievous as he opens the root cellar doors. "Now, if you're coming, come on. We'll miss it."

"Miss what?" What has Louis got secreted away in here?

It's dark and smells damp, which Harry expected, but he wishes Louis would turn on a light as they descend the rickety wooden stairs.

"Keep your balance," Louis warns. "It can get to be tricky getting down these if you don't keep a hand on the wall."

When Harry does reach out and touch the wall, it's just packed earth and roots, tangled and crumbling, ominous.

It's not the sort of place he'd prefer to be. The atmosphere is making him wonder if Louis has caught him out after all and plans to murder him in his death cellar.

"Uhm," Harry says in his best George voice, nervous and soft and wobbling through the dark, "Is – sorry, I don't like being in dark, small spaces."

Louis reaches a hand behind and catches Harry's, squeezing it. "Nearly there," he promises. "And it won't be dark anymore."

That doesn't sound as promising as he probably thinks it does.

The stairs do stop soon, and then there's a grunt as Louis shoves open what sounds like a heavy door.

It's still dark, but then there's a clatter, a little, "Oof, shit!" and then the sound of a cord being pulled to turn on a rudimentary light.

After the intensity of the blackness from before, Harry has to shield his eyes and blink rapidly before he's able to make out what's in front of him.

It's not torture devices. It's not dead bodies. It's not a shrine to the devil.

Well, depending on whom you'd ask. Liam would be typically stodgy and stoic about it.

"What... is this?" he asks, eyes on the old, beat up cushions on the floor, the television pushed up against one… barrier of packed dirt. ‘Wall’ is a strong word for it.

Louis hauls a blanket from one of the metal shelves, and he fiddles with removing boards from a window high up on a back wall so that the antenna can get a signal.

When he turns around to Harry, he looks sheepish for the first time Harry's ever seen. "I just... couldn't quite give up everything, you know? But I do think television'd rot the kids' brains, so. I hide it down here. And I only watch once a week, I swear!"

"It's Saturday," Harry says. He thinks he sounds rather dazed. "You sneak off on Saturday mornings to come watch Scooby Doo by yourself?"

Louis shrugs and lights a Sterno canister to heat water. There's a tin of Ovaltine on one of the shelves. "There are worse things I could be doing."

Yeah. Harry's thought about every possibility in regards to worse things Louis could be doing, and Louis has just picked one he wouldn't have seen coming.

"I guess so," Harry says, bewildered and totally honest, for once. Just Harry.

Louis gives him a smile, and the light in his eyes looks, to Harry, sincerely happy. "Watch with me?"

Well, Harry likes a good Scooby-Doo. He doesn't know how anyone who catches bad guys wouldn't like Scooby-Doo, Liam aside. Liam's just a square. Even Grimshaw likes Scooby-Doo, Harry thinks. He's a bit like Fred, anyway.

Louis is starting to look less like one of the masked men and more like, well. Harry's not sure.

Not Fred.

But not Mr. Jenkins.

"Sure," Harry tells him. "Groovy."

Louis positively beams at that, scrabbling to pull over a second beanbag chair and spreading the blanket out over them both. "Do you want an Ovaltine, too?"

"You know what?" Harry considers Louis for a moment, then flops down into his beanbag. "I'd really like an Ovaltine."

And he would. Because even though it's Louis and they're literally in an underground bunker, and as much as maybe Harry's stomach's felt better lately without eating much meat than he'd ever admit once he's back home at Quantico, and as much as maybe he's been sleeping better and enjoying the fresh air every day, Harry thinks that a chalky chocolate drink and some cartoons sounds like the best start to a day he's had in a long time.

Louis Tomlinson, Evil Mastermind-slash-Potential Cult Leader, sings along with the Scooby Doo theme song.

After a moment, so does Harry.

Louis settles back in his chair and checks that the Sterno isn't going to burn them alive. "I like Shaggy best. Or the Mystery Machine. That's a dynamite van."

"Wish I had one," Harry agrees. Not very inconspicuous, but off the job, neither is Harry.

"Me, too," Louis says wistfully. "Jade could be Velma, couldn't she?"

"I could see Jade as Velma," Harry muses. "Who'd be Daphne, though?"

"You," Louis says. "Pretty one who's smarter than you look. And great legs."

Harry's blush is genuine, and a little surprising. He's known, obviously, that Louis is or is very good at faking being attracted to him, but it's rarely stated with such bluntness. He flounders. "Oh... oh, thank you."

Suddenly it feels a little too far from the real world to be down here alone with Louis Tomlinson, both of them sharing the same blanket draped across their laps.

For an underground bunker, it's really quite warm, isn't it?

Or maybe he just hasn't stopped blushing yet.

But why else would Louis want to be alone with him? But Harry's not. It's not. They're not.

Louis doesn't try it on with him, though. Not even the classic arm around the shoulder. Doesn't shuffle his beanbag closer. He just gives Harry another smile and turns back to the television.

They've caught the tail-end of Jabberjaw, which Harry does not love nearly as much as Scooby-Doo or Dynomutt.

"I get a bit scared at this show," he admits to Louis, embarrassed. "I saw _Jaws_ in the theater and now everything with sharks just makes me nervous. I don't like the ocean much, anyway."

"Do you not?" Louis bounces up to sit cross-legged on his seat like they're children at storytime. "I always loved the sea. We used to go on vacation near the ocean, back when I was young."

"Really?" Harry tries to sound nonchalant. "Where was that?"

Louis laughs quietly. "You know, I'm not actually sure? It's been forever. I just remember lots and lots of water, and salt in my eyes, and watching the shoreline to count the boats that would pass."

Convenient. Harry sighs, turning back to watch some nonsense as Jabber competes in the 2076 Undersea Olympics against a robot. Apparently he, too, is trying to trick a criminal mastermind. Who isn't these days?

"My mother took us every other year." Louis' voice is very soft, almost inaudible underneath the noise from the television.

Harry doesn't really need to know that, unless Louis killed her. It's strange that the twins are here, if they're Louis' natural sisters, without their mother. They're so young.

But if Louis stole them, then it's something Harry can use.

All the same, something about the way Louis said it, his mouth half-touching his mug of Ovaltine as his eyes never leave the brightly dancing black-and-white screen of their TV set, makes Harry not want to ask.

It's his job to ask. It's his duty to ask. He has to ask.

He doesn't.

Commercials blare onto the screen and Louis' face tightens back to its usual expression.

"See, that's what's wrong with the world today," he says, gesturing at the screen. Apparently McDonalds offers breakfast sandwiches as a new special item. The ‘McMuffin.’ "They're advertising to children, and is it anything they need? No. It's just crap that's supposed to fund a government that doesn't care about people anywhere."

That's more of what Harry was expecting. "Isn't it normal to want things, though?" he ventures. "If people only had what they needed, they'd be sadder, I think."

"There's a difference between having what you want and wanting what you don't have," Louis declares.

Well, no shit. Those are two different things; of course that makes them different things. "But you can want something so bad that it feels like you need it." He blinks at Louis. "Can't you?"

A syrup-slow smile spreads across Louis face, and his gaze flicks from Harry's eyes to his mouth. "Sure."

Hell, that wasn't even what Harry meant, but of course it's what Louis was thinking, the two of them hidden down here alone with only Scooby for company. Harry wonders if Louis is thinking about kissing him.

He wonders what he'd do if Louis did.

He wonders how many of the others actually know about Louis' "secret hideout."

He's willing to bet not many. Zayn, maybe, but he doesn't think Louis would've brought Jesy down here, or Niall, or Perrie.

But someone. If this is where Louis disappears to in the dead of night.

Harry clears his throat. No use thinking about that now. He'll catch Louis one of these days; he's got no doubt of that. "So you agree, then? There's not much of a difference between needing and wanting really bad?"

Louis shakes his head. "There's still a difference. I need air. I need water, I need food, I need my family here, all of you. That's what I need to survive. Even if I want more than that... I don't have to have it. I'm used to..." he huffs a soft, sad laugh, turning back to the TV. "Coveting from afar."

"But if you don't have to," Harry insists. "If you don't have to covet from afar, why would you? Just because something's not necessary doesn't mean it's bad. You don't have to–" He swallows, his throat dry. "People shouldn't have to stay away from things that make them happy. Even if what makes them happy might not be what's best for them."

Louis raises one eyebrow. "I wondered if that's what brought you here." He smiles. "Good."

And with that, it seems the topic is closed, because he leans forward to turn up the volume as Scooby begins to be chased by Jabberjaw on-screen.

Harry's throat still feels dry, and his heart's beating double-fast. Where did all of that come from? He doesn't even believe most of that himself; he has no business trying to teach it to a person like Louis.

And anyway, no one _does_ need a Waltons dollhouse. Not when you could make one.

The lights of the show bounce around the little nook, white and gray washing out Louis' face and flashing of patterns that reflect in his eyes. He looks happy. Happy to be here with Harry, watching cartoons on a Saturday morning in the middle of nowhere.

He's not even that afraid there might be something sinister in the drink. Louis has this stored down here in a place only he has access to and he's given Harry a big glass of it and if there was something not-good in the Ovaltine, it'd be so easy for Louis to slip something in there, poison or something worse.

But Harry just isn't all that worried about it. He doesn't know when that happened.

Probably sometime around when Louis started doing his Scooby Doo impression during the opening credits.

And Harry can't help laughing, because, really, except for the beard, Louis really does look like Shaggy Rogers.

"I'm always waiting for it to be an actual monster," muses Louis, swilling his Ovaltine like it's a fine wine. "It never is, but I guess the kid in me still thinks monsters are real, even in cartoons."

Harry swallows around saying _monsters are real; I know; I've seen them_.

From the look on Louis' face, he already knows that anyway.

The nice thing about Louis, Harry thinks vaguely, is that he follows his own rule about asking questions. He's never demanded George tell him how he found the farmhouse or why he's stayed.

As far as Harry can tell, he's never even tried to get information out of him. And Harry would be able to tell if someone was interrogating him, no matter if they were being subtle about it.

After all, he's doing the same thing. Down in this bunker, in reality, it's a match of wills. But it just feels like... like they're friends.

Louis, at least, considers them friends. No – by his own words, he considers them family.

Harry's been called family by people before (and Family, even). 

This is the only time it's made something twinge a little under his gut.

"Stuffy in here sometimes," says Louis, his eyes on the television. As Harry watches, those eyes flick toward him and his eyebrows draw together before his face relaxes again. "Won't make you stay if you're not feeling too good."

Harry shakes his head. He just pulls his half of the afghan up around his chest. "I'm alright. And I want to see if Mayor Dudley did it."

Louis' laugh is surprised, delighted. "Right you are. Maybe today's the day it's a real ghost."

"A 10,000-Volt Ghost sure would be... shocking," Harry offers.

There's practically a draft as Louis' head whips around. His eyes are sparkling. "Shocking indeed," he agrees. "One might even say it would be... illuminating."

"Very enlightening." Harry smiles. "A truly bright idea."

When Louis laughs this time, it's more of a giggle, a snicker. "That one was... re- _volt_ -ing."

" _Watt_ an insult." Harry sniffs.

"Okay, okay." Louis sniffs, turning his nose up. "I'm pulling the plug on this conversation."

Harry ponders that for a minute. "Good, 'cause I don't have any zingers left. Was that one? 'Cause shocks are, basically, zingers?"

"I think it counts," says Louis agreeably. "All I had left was socket to me." He grins and waggles his eyebrows.

Harry just groans and pushes at Louis' shoulder. "That's awful."

"It's enlightening," Louis protests, bumping Harry's shoulder right back.

"I used that one!" Harry protests. "You can't steal my joke when it was a good one."

"Well, you used two in one go, it was unfair." Louis shakes his head sadly. "I couldn't let you just break the rules, could I?"

"Didn't you say on my first night here that rules are made to be broken?"

"I said 'some rules,'" Louis says, as though that clarifies anything.

"So rules that aren't your rules?" translates Harry.

Louis beams. "Yes."

Of course. Just as Harry suspected. "Well," he replies, taking another sip from his Ovaltine. It tastes better now than it did when he first tried it. "Guess that's me told."

Louis reaches out and shakes Harry's knee genially. "I'll let you break my rules. I already am. You're watching my Scooby."

Harry has to hide a smile in his corner of the blanket. He's going insane. "Maybe I'll break a few more of your rules, then." He looks at Louis out of the corner of his eye. "Just to see if I can."

Louis' eyes narrow, but it looks playful rather than measuring. They finish out Scooby-Doo, then stay for the rest of Dynomutt before Louis extinguishes the lights and they make their way up the rickety staircase to the root cellar door.

"This was nice," Harry says haltingly, with a belly full of Ovaltine and nerves.

"Wasn't it?" Louis sounds cool as a cucumber as he pushes open the hatch and they both have to blink against the bright, crisp early October sunshine.

"It was." Harry coughs. "Thanks for letting me be a part of it."

Louis' hand rests on the join between Harry's neck and shoulder, and he kneads his fingers, firm and confident. "Any time."

It's the sort of sunny outside which means it's bright but cold, and Louis' hand feels warm on Harry's skin where it peers out from his collar. It's early and quiet and everything feels very relaxed. Contented.

The sky is blue and clear and Harry doesn't think about how it would look if he was at home.

A great chevron of Canadian geese flies overhead, their wings gliding over the tops of the vibrantly orange and yellow trees, everything oversaturated in its splashes of cartoonish autumnal color.

Harry likes it here. 

But it's nice, the quiet and the... it's strange, but somehow, this feels more like the America Harry'd wanted to serve and protect than the other America, the real one, that he lives in.

That doesn't make sense. But it's how he feels, and as he looks back at Louis, Harry thinks he's beginning to realize that sometimes what you feel doesn't make any sense at all.

With Jesy sharing his sleeping space every night, there's no reason for Harry to look at Louis the way he does, sometimes, or to even notice that Louis is looking at him right now. Jesy is beautiful.

It's just that sometimes, in the right light (when the sun is shining and he's smiling and the light catches all the different shades of blue in his eyes, and when he looks at Harry as though he's trying to figure him out but likes that he can't, on cold days made for wearing sweaters and watching cartoons and drinking Ovaltine), Louis is beautiful too.

His hand fits Harry's shoulder – fits onto Harry's skin, where it peeks from his collar – differently than Jesy's. That's all.

"Early enough for breakfast still, looks like." Louis' voice is soft to match the stillness around them. "Lend me a hand?"

"Yeah," Harry says, and rubs his own belly just to stop the butterflies. "Of course."

"Awesome." Louis smiles at him. "Jesy tells tales about how I'm a terrible cook, but I've whipped up a decent breakfast in my time."

Harry can't help the smile that spreads across his face, dimpling his cheeks like a schoolboy. "I believe you."

Louis' grip on his shoulder tightens momentarily, then loosens until he can just slide his hand down Harry's back and then drop it back to his side. The entire movement takes about two seconds, but to Harry it feels like a year.

When Harry was a child, he'd always been nervous – skittish. For the entire month of October, he'd clung to his mother's hand, or Gemma's, thumb in his mouth as they walked down the street and he stared, wide-eyed, at the scarecrows and ravens and scraggle-toothed Jack o' Lanterns. They were all full of ghosts, he was sure, set to make his spine tingle and his tummy quiver.

Those feelings, spine-tingling tummy-quivering, they're still frightening but in a different way, in a way that makes him want to both run away and never leave.

They must just be back because it's October. It's nothing to do with Louis.

It's just something in the air.

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	6. Chapter Six

"We should get to work before the others wake up." A slight consolation is that Louis seems just as rattled as he is, one hand in his pocket, the other toying with the hem of his shirt. "It'll be a nice surprise."

"Okay," Harry agrees. "What do we have left to make?"

"The chickens have been doing well this week," says Louis thoughtfully. "Something with eggs, maybe. Everyone gets excited about eggs."

Harry breathes, and the scent of leaves on the air reminds him of cinnamon and sweet. "Could... we could make French toast."

"We _could_ make French toast." Louis perks up, apparently excited by the thought. "Goes with cartoons, doesn't it? It's a day to behave like children."

"It has sugar in it," Harry points out. "Aren't we saving it for canning?"

"We can afford one day to splurge." The corners of his mouth pull up. "People shouldn't have to stay away from things that make them happy, even if those things aren't what's best for them."

Harry looks down at his feet before letting his lips twitch in a smile. "Right. Alright."

"Usually Zayn's the one who gets the eggs from the coops," explains Louis as they make their way across the lawn. Harry knows in an abstract way where the animals stay, but he doesn't venture there very often. "I think the hens might have a bit of a thing for him; they never make trouble when it's him reaching under them."

Harry snorts. "He does have that effect, it seems."

"He does," says Louis. "It's his face, I think. Hard to get too worked up about anything when he's got that face."

Harry looks down at his feet, his stomach wobbling again. "I hadn't noticed."

"Hard to miss." Louis laughs from beside Harry, and then his knuckles brush the back of Harry's hand. "Head over heels for Perrie, though."

It's obvious; that. But even so – "What about... sorry, tell me if I can't ask, but what's Niall, then?"

Louis shrugs. "Niall's Niall, mostly. I don't ask and they don't tell. It's what makes them happy."

Harry just nods, following Louis out to the chicken coop.

"I'm no great shakes at this," Louis warns as they're surrounded by the smell of birds and sawdust. "They can get very aggressive."

"Great," Harry says. "I love a good riling up of a fast, aggressive bird."

"This'll be delightful for you, then." Louis grins up at him, crouching down in front of the first chicken.

It turns its head like a camera flashing and regards Louis with one challenging eye.

"Okay, let's be adults about this," says Louis to the chicken. "Nothing personal, babe. I just need to reach under you for a second."

Her wings ruffle. All around them, dark wings begin to ruffle, and Harry stifles a laugh into his hand. Somehow, nothing makes Louis seem less like a cult leader with omniscient power than a bunch of chickens.

Louis takes a deep breath and then slips his hand underneath the chicken, cringing as he does.

Her wings beat the air furiously, stirring up Louis' long hair, but she doesn't lunge or peck.

"Don't make any sudden moves," Louis says, his voice low like he thinks he's in a wildlife documentary. "Don't say anything. Don't even breathe the wrong way."

Harry holds his breath, watching in wait as Louis comes away with two feather-covered eggs in his palms. He holds them out and Harry makes a basket of his shirt, the air cold on his belly, for Louis to rest the eggs in to carry them to the house.

"I should probably get all of them," mutters Louis, shuffling along on his knees to the next nest. "But I'll be honest with you, I might be too scared."

Harry shakes his head. "You? Scared of anything, much less some chickens? I can't imagine that."

"I'm scared of lots of things." Louis' eyes flash up at Harry before he rolls up his sleeve and tries for another egg. "Chickens just top the list today."

"I can try," Harry offers. "Unless I'm underestimating chickens and they can actually hurt me."

"They can peck!" Louis insists, quietly so as not to startle them. "They can poke little dots into your hands! And it stings something awful!"

"Are you going to start crying?" Harry teases. "Are the chickens picking on you at school? They're just big bullies, chickens?"

Louis scowls. "Fine, I'll just get the eggs then and show you. They've evil, chickens."

"No, no, I'll take your word for it. I believe you." Harry coughs. "They're just evil covered in feathers."

There's a sniff, and then a sneeze, as Louis snorts, and then the chickens are all rustling again, their wings beating at the air.

"No-no-no," Louis says quickly, yanking his hand back and depositing an egg in Harry's shirt. "No, please no, please, chickens."

One of them flutters out of her box and lands on the floor, bobbling her way to the door as Harry and Louis both skirt out of her way.

Harry holds his breath. He gets the feeling that if he doesn't, he'll just burst into laughter.

Louis seems to be holding his breath as well as he collects the rest of the eggs from the nests as the other three chickens take her heed and follow her out into the little yard.

"That's enough," declares Louis, ducking back out of the coop. "Thought Gertrude was going to give me a seeing to, there. We're lucky to make it out alive."

"Gertrude?"

"Gertrude, Virginia, Sylvia, and Zelda," Louis confirms. He looks at Harry out of the corners of his eyes. "Zayn and Perrie named them."

"Did they?" asks Harry, more focused on keeping the eggs balanced in his shirt than anything else. "Is Gertrude the leader?"

"I don't think chickens have leaders," Louis says. "They aren't people, Georgie, they are birds."

"You thought they were evil masterminds not two seconds ago!" Harry protests. "Like a chicken gang, that's how you were talking."

Louis just harrumphs like Harry is the one not making any sense, and continues on through the crisp air back to the farmhouse.

He lingers on the front steps, watching Harry like he's prepared to dive in order to save any eggs that might go tumbling down. "I think we've got a loaf that'll be good for French toast. Been around for a few days."

"Perfect," Harry says. "Do we still have milk or should I go find Petunia?"

"There should still be milk," Louis mutters. "I'll check. And I know we've got cinnamon. What else do you need?"

"Sugar," Harry says. "Vanilla, if we have it, but I don't think we have any. Something tasty."

"Right, we do have the sugar. We might have vanilla somewhere if someone brought some when they came here, but I've never seen it if they did."

"Why would someone carry around vanilla?"

Louis laughs. "Not just to have it on hand, man. The first bunch of people I brought with me, they packed up most of what they had to come here. Non-perishables. That's where a lot of our canned stuff comes from."

"Oh," says Harry, because that's... more straightforward, logical thinking than most cultists are thought to have. "Well, if we don't have vanilla, could we have some jam on top?"

"Good thinking." Louis perks up. "Yeah, I think we can swing that."

Harry beams, entirely too pleased that Louis thought he had a good idea than he should be. He was top of his class at Annapolis; there's no reason to be so glad to have some possibly-evil mastermind who's inexplicably afraid of chickens tell him he's smart.

"That's what I like to see." Louis' smile softens, and he gives Harry's hair a ruffle. It should feel incredibly condescending, but it just seems fond. "You've got a great smile. Warms my heart whenever I get to see it."

That just makes Harry's ears glow red.

"Come on," Louis urges, making his way into the house. "We have to get this done before Jesy wakes up or she'll take over the whole operation."

That's definitely true. 

Harry holds the eggs more securely in the basket of his folded shirt and they hustle into the farmhouse. It's scarcely warmer inside than outside, so Louis takes a detour to the fireplace while Harry sets up in the kitchen.

The fire roars to life, flickering sparks across the floor, and then Louis joins Harry. Harry can feel him before he sees him, Louis' constant warmth a presence at his back.

"Alright, chef," Louis says. "What do we do?"

"Oh." Apparently he's in charge. "Well. You need to beat the eggs together with the milk and cinnamon. And vanilla, if we do have it. I know how to do an alcoholic version but since the kids'll be eating it -- "

"Best not," Louis says. "Besides, we don't have any except the moonshine Niall brews and I don't think it's fit for anyone's breakfast."

"Right. I wouldn't put that in anything I'm planning on eating." Harry shudders. "Just eggs and milk and cinnamon, then."

Louis grins. "Alright. Let me clean off the eggs; sometimes, and I'm not saying it's when I've cooked, we end up with feathers in the mix."

"Can't imagine why Jesy doesn't trust you with the cooking," says Harry lightly. "You're clearly a master."

Louis Tomlinson sticks out his tongue.

Harry's never met a less criminal-mastermind criminal mastermind.

On the one hand, that's a welcome thought.

But on the other, he knows, with a guilty tug in his stomach, that it means he should make his excuses, contact Liam, and go home.

And he doesn't want to.

These people are either far more trusting than they should be, or very good at pretending they are. Harry's fairly practiced at knowing when people are lying, so he's almost positive that he's earned their trust (with a few exceptions) but if they're really this gullible, why are they out here?

Although in all honesty, Harry can think of ten worse places to be just off the top of his head. He'd expected bad drug trips and abuse and proselytizing, and probably some rats, but instead, it's just... calm. Peaceful.

The most frantic thing that happens is when the water stops working for a little while, and even that only lasts half a day before the problem sorts itself out.

Every once in a while, one of the kids will fall and cry for a while, and both Harry and Jade get sniffly with hayfever as the season changes, but for the most part, things run smoothly.

Harry wonders if it's always like this. Are they putting on a show in front of the new person? Even if they don't know why he's there, he's an outsider, and Harry would expect it to take longer for them to accept him.

Then again, he's been here for upwards of ten weeks now. It's hard to remember that it's been so long, as every day melts into the next.

That's months, really. Months that he's been here, and the most criminal thing he's witnessed is Niall sneaking food from the pantry every so often.

And since he lives here, that isn't even criminal. It's just bad manners.

The only way he can tell the passage of time is the seasons, and Jade keeps track of the day and month, so sometimes he'll ask. Just to know. Just to have that one solid moment in time.

Not that it much matters. When he's undercover, he's in for the long haul. He'd been in Chicago for ages and ages.

He's good at it. For a lot of reasons, but he knows the main one is that he doesn't really have any attachments to keep him back. He loves his parents and his sister, but affection for them or for the place he comes from doesn't consume him. No wife. No kids. Nothing to tie him down.

He's never really thought anything was missing in that regard, either. It's hard to imagine a life where someone else meant enough to change the course of things and make a place seem better than wherever he already is.

Harry's always been both halves of his own whole. He's not looking for the other half because it doesn't exist.

Still, the way that Lou and Tom look at each other is sweet. Zayn and Perrie, too, Niall notwithstanding.

The general sense of peace and calm makes it more startling when there's a sudden commotion one morning as Harry stumbles down the stairs, rubbing his eyes.

"What's going on?" he asks Jesy's shoulder, since she's the first one he bumps into at the foot of the stairs.

She's smiling when she turns to look at him. At least that means it's probably not bad news.

"You aren't the newbie anymore, George," she says cheerfully. "No more special treatment for you."

Harry's stomach drops a little. "Is there another new person coming in?" He scans the crowd looking for unfamiliar faces. If he needs to keep tabs on another unknown factor, it could be disastrous.

If another agency's stepping in on the FBI's toes, too, things could get messy. After the last few years, they can't afford more mess.

But there's nobody new as far as Harry can see, unless they're particularly short. Oh, no, what if it's a child? A runaway?

The only people in the kitchen are the twins, Lou with Lux on her breast, and Zayn with Perrie, Niall hovering off near the stove.

Perrie is smiling, too. And, on second glance, crying?

"Oh," Harry whispers. "Is she...?"

He's not actually sure what word he means to fill in the blank there. Dying? Hurt? Or –

"We think I'm pregnant," Perrie whispers, swiping her fingers underneath her eyes. "Almost positive, actually."

Louis looks almost as beatific as Zayn.

"Congratulations," Harry offers. He likes to think he and Perrie have grown to be friends, at least, and the swoop of happiness in his stomach reflects it. The smile comes easily to his face. "You'll be an amazing mother."

"I hope so," she says, and leans into Zayn's arms. "I did alright with the twins, I guess."

"You'll be amazing, just like he said," Zayn murmurs, his mouth against her forehead.

Zayn looks more at peace than Harry has seen him yet.

"We'll have to celebrate somehow," says Louis, one hand on Perrie's shoulder and one on Zayn's. "We'll have a special dinner."

Perrie rubs her stomach, and it's true: Harry can see that she's grown out a little even since he's met her. It's strange to think that he might have seen the time it happened.

Very strange, actually. He's never before thought that he might've witnessed the moment of conception.

It makes him feel like he's involved, somehow. The warm light in Louis' eyes and the grin on Jesy's face make more sense now.

"Do you have any idea when it might be due?" It'll be after he's left, surely, but maybe he'll be able to check up on the case after it's finished. To make sure they're all okay.

Perrie shrugs. "I can't be too far. Spring, probably. The beginning of summer?"

He definitely won't be here by then. If she's showing, she's got to be at least two or three months along, though, so the times are right. "Best wishes," he says, with another smile. "I'm happy for you. Both of you." He's not sure whether to include Niall.

Zayn grins at Harry. He isn't a sullen person, but he usually reserves his smiles for the inner circle: Perrie and Niall and Louis, maybe Lux since no one can resist her.

It's jarring, Zayn's happiness being focused on him entirely. It changes his face and makes him look like a person Harry might have a beer or two with.

"Thanks, man," Zayn says. "I'm taking over all of the cooking duties today and we're gonna celebrate. How d'you like your eggs?"

"Anything other than scrambled," Harry replies automatically. He'd caught a nasty stomach bug when he was a kid and he'd only been able to keep down plain scrambled egg and water for about two weeks. He's never been able to make his way back.

Zayn grins. "Gotcha. I'm the same."

"Ew!" Daisy says, and she's the only one in the room who looks a bit down. "Scrambly eggs are the only good eggs. Otherwise they're all yolky."

"Some people like yolkies," Harry replies.

Daisy wrinkles her nose. "Yolkies are yuckies."

"Aw, sweetie," Perrie says, and holds out the arm that isn't around Zayn's waist. "Come here, you. I'll scramble your eggs just how you like, just special for you, okay?"

That does cheer Daisy up a bit, and she makes her way to Perrie, pressing her face to Perrie's side. "Thank you Miss Perrie," she says, muffled.

"You're welcome, Miss Daisy," Perrie parrots. "You know you'll always be my special flower, right?"

She's very perceptive, is Perrie. Harry admires that in a person.

Daisy brightens like the sun. "Really?" she asks.

Perrie taps the end of Daisy's nose. "Of course, silly goose. I can't imagine a better big sister."

Daisy's arms wrap around Perrie's waist, her tiny face shining with happiness. "I'll be the best big sister in the world."

Perrie kisses her forehead. It's sweet, but when Harry glances to Louis, his face is wistful and far-away.

He keeps his face ducked a little as he nudges Louis' side, silently raising his eyebrows in an expression that hopefully conveys the message of 'Are you okay?'

Louis startles. "Alright, everyone!" He claps his hands. "Let's take our seats and let Zayn have the kitchen." He turns and gives Harry a little smile. "It's a happy day."

Which means he's not going to say anything to Harry whether he's upset or not. It's odd, how quickly Harry's learned to read what Louis does or doesn't say. He's very open while managing to be shut as tightly as a vice.

He'd make a good agent, really. If he weren't a cultist.

Harry's found himself thinking along those lines a lot – if Louis weren't a cultist, then insert-thing-here. It's not useful or productive to think about, because Louis _is_. But he could've been so many other things.

It's become a useless game in Harry's mind, _how Louis could fit into my life if he weren't a cultist_.

There's all too many ways and all too many places they could've known each other.

But this is the way, and it's the job. There's no way around that.

No use thinking about it, really. Could haves and maybes and what ifs aren't any use to anybody, and it'd do Harry a world of good if he could just get that through to his brain.

But there are just so many questions about the past that are left unanswered with his every day of present here. How did everyone find their way to this farmhouse? Who did they used to be?

Is Harry the only one living as someone else?

He can't imagine there's any other reason to come live out here if nobody's trying to run away from something.

Except, maybe, he thinks, as he watches Perrie kiss Zayn's chin when he leans over her to set a plate of eggs in front of Jesy, if they're running _towards_ something new.

The changes that the news brings are obvious in the next few days. On more than one occasion while Harry and Louis are working on the dollhouse upstairs, Zayn joins them. He doesn't say much, just watches them work and drinks lemonade, but his presence is fairly amiable. It's nice.

Perrie spends more of her time with Lou and Lux, which means Lou spends less time with Harry. He misses her, but it's nice to see how invested Perrie is in learning about how babies think and act.

If she's a student, Lou is her teacher, and she takes to it with remarkable pleasure. She practically glows every time she demonstrates the easiest ways to get Lux to sleep.

"It's sweet, isn't it?" Louis asks. "I dunno why Perrie's worried. She was indispensable with the twins."

"It's different with your own, I think," Zayn comments from his corner, legs stretched out in front of him as he sits, leaning against the wall. "I helped with the twins, too, and I nearly piss myself every time I think about the baby."

"Well, they threw up on you a lot more than her," Louis remembers, laughing.

That's another good thing about Zayn being around more often. Louis is more open with his stories. Even though they're mostly silly things, it's all knowledge, and knowledge is power.

It's clear that Zayn's is Louis' partner, like Liam is Harry's. They work together, they spend their lives together, but they're like brothers. They've bickered and disagreed about how to accomplish things. They rib each other over it, but the past is the past. It means something, but it's done.

"That was awful." Zayn shakes his head, smiling. "Having to change my shirt four times a day. And you, laughing all the while."

"And I'll laugh when your baby throws up on me," Louis says. He smiles at Zayn with only his eyes. "George, can you hand me that bit of chimney?"

It's sort of visibly a chimney, even, which must mean they're making progress at least. He sets it in Louis' hand with a smile.

Louis sets it on top of the blueprint to measure size. "Looking good. Soon enough we'll be able to paint and build."

"You think?" asks Harry curiously, squinting at the blueprint. To be honest, he's awful at reading it.

Louis nods, and he looks pleased. "You've learnt a lot about how to handle your tools, Georgie. Something else to celebrate. October is full of wonders."

"Is the actual building my exam?" Harry asks, the corners of his mouth pulling up. "Will I be graded?"

"Yes," Louis says, sternly. "And if you fail, I'll put you in detention."

Harry wouldn't fail on somebody else's gift, anyway, but he nods his head, earnest. "I'll do my absolute best."

Louis grins. "I know you will."

"Have you had any other ideas for the colors?" Harry asks. He runs his fingers over the wood, smooth and solid. It's much better now than when they started.

"Cabbages are purple," Zayn offers. "Could try that, too."

"It's worth a try," agrees Louis. "We'll make a note of it. I think I've heard something about pennies being able to dye things if you do something with them. I'll ask around the house and see if anyone knows."

Harry blinks and wills his heart to keep beating normally. "Do you have a lot of pennies? I didn't think anyone had money here."

"We could figure something out if we had to," Louis says, light and airy. "It's a big world. Lots of pennies."

_Interesting_.

There's more of a story there. Harry knows it; it's in the way Louis' eyes aren't quite locking with Harry's. Louis is a lot of things, but he meets a man's eyes when he's talking to them.

"Well," Louis says, standing up. "I'm famished. Let's go see what Jesy's made tonight."

That's a change of subject if Harry's ever heard one. He smiles and shrugs, setting the piece of wood that he was holding down. "I could eat."

"Groovy," Zayn agrees. "I think after dinner, Leigh's teaching the rest of the ladies to knit, so we can have a gentlemen's night."

"I like the sound of that. Little George's first one ever, isn't it?" Louis laughs. It doesn't sound entirely innocuous.

Harry pictures Zayn and Niall again. "Er, what's a gentlemen's night?"

"Drink. Laugh. Be merry." Zayn pats Harry's back, comradely. "Drink more."

Ah. Well, Harry knows how to do that. Even if the drinking becomes an initiation, he can handle anything they throw at him.

He’s had worse initiations than drinking homemade moonshine, after all. Or, as he finds out that night, when the ladies kick them out of the house to have their knitting party, homemade something-or-other that could take the paint off a house.

Harry's never smelled anything in his life that's more alcoholic than what he's holding in his hand. He takes another sniff, tentative, and has to keep himself from rearing back at the thought of swallowing it.

"Strong," he comments. "Reminds me of paint thinner."

"You can use it as paint thinner," Tom confirms. "Works pretty well."

That's not reassuring in the slightest, but Harry really wouldn't expect much more from Tom. "Are you sure it's safe to drink?" he asks doubtfully.

"Is any liquor safe to drink, really?" Louis asks, and he clinks his Mason jar up against Harry's in a jaunty _cheers_.

"I'm sure there's some more safe to drink than others." Harry's never been afraid that he might die from a beer at the bar after work, after all.

"It's fine," Zayn says. He claps Harry on the back. "Stop being a baby, George."

"He is a baby, isn't he?" Louis says, reaching across the oblong circle they've formed to pinch Harry's cheek. "It's his first time."

For some reason, that makes something swoop hot in Harry's gut. "Shut up."

"Someone's getting brave," quips Louis. If Harry didn't know better (and he guesses he doesn't, not really) he'd think that Louis has already imbibed a little, from the looseness of his posture and the flush on his face.

His hand is still close enough that he pats Harry's cheek twice. "I like it. Keep it up."

Harry feels flushed now, and he knows for sure that he hasn't had any of this stuff yet. He has an urge to fix it, and tips the jar back far enough that he can dribble just a little into his mouth.

_It's paint thinner_.

This must be what Tom uses to polish old bits of wood smooth.

He doesn't even want to swallow it, but as it goes down his throat, he imagines the only possible outcome here is that he is going to die. That's it. There is no intense fight scene, no shootout with a bad guy; he's going to die from paint thinner that somebody handed him and he voluntarily drank. What was he thinking?

Niall _must_ have something else in his glass, because he's lapping it up like it's milk. Zayn is snickering at the pair of them over the rim of his Mason jar.

"Your face is fantastic," Louis says. Harry thinks that's what Louis says. He might've died already. This might be the end.

"Someone slap him on the back," Niall says. Has his accent always been that thick?

A fist thunks down in between Harry's shoulder blades and he gasps for air. Had he not been breathing? Had he been breathing? What is in this jar?

When he exhales, a cloud of pure alcohol puffs out of his mouth.

"You alright? Still with us?" Louis is so amused that he's bursting from the seams with it, a halo of moonlight shining down around his head. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Harry pulls on his tongue, just in case that might peel the taste away. "Nineteen?"

"Close enough." Louis waves a dismissive hand. "Good stuff, isn't it?"

Harry's watery eyes zero in on Louis' face. "What does 'good' mean to you?"

Louis tips his jar in Harry's direction. "Effective," he comments. "Does its job."

"Is its job _filing the goats' hooves_?"

"So overdramatic." Louis tsks. "You'll get used to it as you drink more. Or forget that you have a sense of taste. Either."

He lifts his jar to tap against Zayn's this time, and everyone else around the circle drinks. With a deep, shuddering sigh, Harry lifts his own and takes another sip.

It's not any better the second time. Still feels like he's drinking a porcupine that's been lit on fire.

When he breathes out another little dragon-puff of alcoholic fire, everyone else settles onto the porch, wrapped in their thick knit ponchos and blankets.

"I was worried it might rain tonight," Louis comments, looking up at the sky. "Looks clear to me, though."

"It won't rain for days," Niall says. "My knee always knows."

"It's as good as one of those weathervanes that look like roosters," Zayn says fondly, giving Niall a pat on the thigh. "At least we'd be warm. First snow'll come sooner than we think, happens every year."

"It'll be Lux's first snow to remember," Tom says. His Mason jar is a quarter empty, and he has a piece of hay between his teeth for the flavor. "We'll have to make snow angels."

"As long as we make sure to bundle everyone up first," Louis agrees. "Snowball fights, too. And building snowmen."

Harry's a little excited in spite of himself. He hasn't played in the snow since he was fourteen – before the military academy. "Is there chocolate to have hot chocolates?"

A smile is playing on Louis' lips. "I'm sure we'll be able to dig some up, if there's not any left from last year."

Harry smiles, loose and languid, and takes another sip of his moonshine. It's not so bad. Keeps his fingers warm.

"Been too long since the last time we did this," Niall remarks. "I'd almost forgotten all of your names."

Tom hooks an elbow around Niall's neck and pulls him down for a hug. "Nialler was lonely, was he?"

"Shut up, get off me," Niall grumbles, still nothing but good nature. "You're gonna make me upend my jar."

"If Lux can hold a big-girl cup, Niall can hold a big-boy jar," Tom argues, shaking Niall a little by the neck.

"Fair point," replies Niall, and he easily relaxes into the hug, flinging his good leg over both of Tom's.

"There's a good lad." 

Niall and Tom look alike, a bit, Harry thinks. Both blond and angular and beardy. Maybe they're cousins. Maybe that's how Niall found his way here. Maybe _everyone_ is cousins.

The thought is a little disquieting in his drunk mind. He doesn't want Louis to be his cousin.

He's probably not. If Louis were his cousin, he would've found Harry and brought him here before now.

Would he? Maybe he hates Harry. Maybe Harry stole his hobby horse when they were small and that's why Louis became a cult leader.

"Louis," Harry interrupts, because it's suddenly very urgent he know. "D'you hate me?"

It's very quiet out here at night. Harry can hear everything in the world, maybe.

"Course I don't hate you, Georgie," Louis finally replies. "What in the hell would make you think that?"

George, right. He's George. Louis wouldn't hate George; George didn't steal his hobby horse.

"No reason," mutters Harry. He looks up at the sky, which seem endless. Out here, there's no light, and the stars stretch on forever.

Louis' hand is very warm when it lands on Harry's ankle. "No, George, I do not hate you. I like you rather a lot."

Harry's pretty sure that he hears Niall snort. Maybe he's choked on the alcohol.

It's very bad alcohol. But it works.

The temperature has been steadily dropping since September slipped into October and the blanket was a great comfort to Harry when they'd loaded them up to bring out here. Now, though, he's roasting, warm and red in the face.

Maybe that's Louis' hand on his ankle, though, burning its way up Harry's leg.

He doesn't move it. Harry waits for him to, sure that something will happen once he does, but he doesn't get to find out, because Louis doesn't move his hand.

After a while of laughing at the way Zayn and Niall compete over who can drink from the wrong end of their jars best, Louis even tightens his hand a little over Harry's ankle, his thumb rolling a little circle over the ball of bone.

It's very distracting, and not quite in a bad way.

It elicits a little shiver in Harry, like he's been tickled, only he doesn't want to kick Louis away.

He's sure that if he draws attention to it, Louis' hand will leave, and Harry doesn't want that for a reason he doesn’t want to admit, even to himself. Not yet. So he doesn't say a word, just hides behind his jar and takes a sip whenever his throat stops burning.

It's very nice out here. Even with a chill in the wind that nips at his ears and fingers, he's warm, and the laughter on the air chases the cold away.

"Nobody's jumping off of anything," Louis cuts in, drawing Harry's attention back to the conversation. "How many times have we discussed this? No, no matter how drunk you get me."

"But I think I could do it," Zayn says. "The porch isn't that high."

"The ground, though, is that hard," Louis retorts. "And I'll not have my right hand man breaking both his legs."

"Yeah, I claimed being the gimpy one," Niall says, or at least that's what Harry thinks Niall says. His accent is _very_ thick right now.

"I could do it," mutters Zayn. He's looking a bit like Lux when she doesn't get a long enough nap.

Louis kisses Zayn's cheek. "I know you could, babe. So you don't have to."

That does seem to cheer Zayn up a little. It was probably the kiss on the cheek. Harry wonders if Louis would give him one if he threatened to jump off something.

"I'll do it," he offers. "I'll jump off the porch. Or the roof!"

"No!" Louis says, his hand tightening yet again on Harry's ankle. "Nobody is jumping off of anything!"

Harry's mouth pulls down to his chin as his eyebrows come together. He's jumped from higher things. He should tell Louis about when he jumped off that subway train to catch that bomber.

He should probably stop drinking.

Harry carefully sets his jar down on the porch, leaning around to see how tall the house actually is. "It's only the two stories," he mumbles. "I'd live, I think."

"I don't want to risk it," Louis says. "No deaths on my hands here, please."

There are plenty of deaths on Harry's hands. Deserved deaths, but deaths all the same, and he's not quite drunk enough to miss that Louis said 'here'.

There was that goat already. But he probably doesn't count, poor old Herbert. They've already eaten a chunk of him, anyway, the rest drying in strips up in Louis' workshop.

But that doesn't account for the time before Louis came here, the time nobody knows about, the big chunk of missing time in the dossier they gave Harry when he was assigned this case. Louis could've killed people, then.

Except for Tom, they all could have. Maybe that's why the moonshine is so strong.

Harry picks his up again. He needs to drink some more.

Things quiet slowly, the silence of the forest in autumn closing in around the house. It's far from dark, though, the fat half-moon shining down over the house and barn and the goats in their paddock. Except for Felix, they're all curled together for warmth, Petunia and Molly tucked up against their mama's belly.

It's nice. Quiet. Peaceful.

He likes it here.

"I like it here," he says quietly, half assuming that nobody will hear him.

"We like having you here," Louis murmurs back. "I'm glad you found your way to us, George."

"So am I." Harry feels warm all over, warmer than he's ever felt in his life. Warmer than a fever. "Really glad."

He lets Louis keep a hand on his ankle even though the time for it's probably passed. Niall is sitting on the step below Zayn, his shoulders cradled between Zayn's knees.

He can't see whether or not any of the others are asleep, but he's feeling a little on the tired side himself, and at the same time, more awake than should be possible.

There's a clink as Tom sets his jar down on the porch steps. "Alright. I'm beat, and I'm drunk. I'm gonna go find my Lou."

"Give her my love," says Louis lazily, his posture at odd opposition with his still-buttoned shirt. "And a kiss from me."

"I always do." Tom bends to doff a kiss to the top of Louis' head, too, liquid-lazy before he wanders off inside.

Zayn doesn't pause in his gentle finger-combing of Niall's blond locks. "I think Niall and I might go, too. He's already asleep on m'knee, isn't he?"

"Am not," Niall argues, eyes closed and breath shallow and full.

"Liar," says Zayn. There's so much pure affection in his voice that Harry feels like an intruder.

"Help m'up," Niall mutters, lifting his arms a little.

"There we go." Zayn gets his arms around Niall and wriggles, using the steps as a way to balance until they're both more-or-less upright.

Niall doesn't have his cane, so Zayn just lifts him up and carries him over the threshold the same way Harry's seen him carry Perrie.

He's still not sure what that's all about. He doesn't care, much, anymore. They all seem happy.

And now it's only Louis and himself outside, with the rest of their world asleep.

"Are you tired, as well?" Louis asks, his voice quiet now. Harry's not a mind-reader, but he thinks Louis doesn't want him to leave.

"I'm alright," Harry says. "It's nice out here."

"It is," Louis agrees. "Not as cold as I was worried it would be."

"It's nice," Harry says. "The alcohol helps, probably. I feel very warm."

"It does that." Louis laughs, and it doesn't make Harry feel any less warm. "One of my favorite things about alcohol."

Harry chuckles. "Well, you can't like the taste of that stuff. Maybe a good merlot or something."

"You a wine boy?" Louis gives Harry a looking over, eyes narrowed. "Wouldn't have guessed that one, I don't think."

Er. Damn loose tongue. That had only been in Chicago.

"I just had a glass once," Harry blusters, hiding under his hair, bashful George all shy. "A friend's house for dinner."

"And you liked it when you had it?" Louis asks. He sounds reminiscent. "I tried some from my parents' cellar when I was about fifteen and hated it. Tasted like socks."

"I thought it was nice," Harry says honestly. "It made me feel classy. Like I belonged."

"That's good, then. It's always good, to feel like you belong." Louis closes his eyes for a second. "Finding that feeling's the greatest in the world."

His thumb is gentle on Harry's ankle. 

"Have you found that, then?" Harry asks. "Here?"

"I've found something that I'd like to keep," is Louis' response. "I feel more like I belong here than I've felt anywhere else."

Harry nods. His head is a little heavy in this slow-hazy quiet mood.

"Have you found it anywhere?" Louis prods, his thumb continuing to rub soothing circles on Harry's skin.

It's not entirely the alcohol that makes Harry say, "Maybe here, too."

Louis' fingers tighten again, but only for a second. "That makes me very happy to hear," says Louis. "Very happy."

Harry's cheeks warm and he sneaks a glance at Louis through his bangs.

He's smiling. He has a very nice smile, all pink in the mouth and crinkly eyes.

In the dark, his eyes are still bright enough to see the blue. Maybe it's just a shine from the alcohol.

Maybe that's why they call it 'moonshine.'

Now he's _definitely_ had enough to drink. He's not sure, though, that he's still capable of placing the jar down without spilling it.

"You look confused," Louis laughs. "Forgot how to use your hands, did you?"

"I don't want to spill it," Harry says plaintively.

Louis smiles. "Give it here."

Harry offers his jar, far more of it gone than should be, keeping one hand on the bottom and one on the side, for balance.

Louis' hands are steady and warm when they rest over Harry's.

He forgets, actually, that he's supposed to be handing something to him.

"There we go," Louis encourages. "Let's just put it down there by Tom's."

And then Louis' hands aren't on his anymore, and he shouldn't care about it, but he does, and he's too drunk to ask himself why he shouldn't, anyway.

"Come here, Georgie," Louis says, and pats his knee. "Just rest your head here. You're drunk."

Well, that seems like an excellent idea.

"I don't think I'm that drunk," says Harry. It's a lie. He's positive he's drunk. And that's proven by how he shuffles down so that he can rest his head just above Louis' knee.

Louis' hand is very gentle where he moves Harry's hair out of his eyes. His hands had been gentle before he killed the goat, too, but Harry isn't trapped under a tree.

He doesn't think Louis is going to kill him. He'd said that he likes Harry, after all.

"Your hair's less curly now," Louis remarks. "It's getting straighter as it grows out."

"S'the weight, I think," Harry mumbles, tilting his head toward Louis' hand. "Uncontrollable when it's short."

"I liked it curly," Louis murmurs. "You were like a sheep."

"I like it curly, too. My sister used to put barrettes in it when we were younger." Harry closes his eyes. "I hated it."

"I bet Lux would love that," Louis chuckles. It might be Harry's imagination, but it feels like Louis is tracing over the shell of his ear with one soft fingertip.

"She has barrettes, doesn't she?" Harry asks. He's very comfortable now. His back doesn't even hurt, despite being aligned with the hard porch floor. "Every little girl should have barrettes."

"I don't know," Louis says. The air whispering over the back of Harry's neck makes him shiver. "What's a barrette?"

"Like little clip things, for hair." Harry swallows. His throat is dry. "My sister had loads of them."

"Oh." Louis doesn't sound like this is irrelevant, even though Harry thinks it probably must be. He's mentioned plenty that he had a sister, or that George had, anyway.

"I haven't seen her in a long time," says Harry, frowning. "I don't think she still wears barrettes. Maybe she does. Maybe she's started again since I've been here." _Stop talking. Stop talking. Stop talking. Right. Now._

"She should have come with you," Louis says as lightly as his fingers are playing through Harry's hair. "The more the merrier."

Harry shakes his head silently, rolling it back and forth against Louis' leg. This is why he shouldn't get drunk when he's undercover. He can hold his liquor ordinarily, but not when what he's drinking has the same alcohol content as what he'd use to clean a wound.

"Think I drank too much," he mutters. "Let's not give me that again."

"I dunno, I like you like this," comments Louis. "You're very... You're much more tactile."

Harry's eyebrows furrow together. "I'm not s'posed to be. Also that sounds like a task you'd give. Fix the tactiles in the bathroom, or something."

"I don't think I'd assign you to fix anything in the bathroom." Louis laughs, warm and indulgent and it makes Harry feel bubbly. Champagne and ginger ale, all over. "Remember when we fixed the goat pen?"

"I was very good at that," Harry blusters. "I only got my thumb once."

"Yeah, it ended up alright, didn't it? The twins even let you use their little bandages."

"My thumb works just as well as it ever did, now," Harry adds. He thrusts his hand out in front of him and is slightly relieved to note that it seems to have the correct amount of palms and fingers, so he really isn't as drunk as he might seem. "See?"

"Wait, let me count to make sure," says Louis, touching the tip of his pointer finger to the tip of Harry's. "That's one." He moves on down the line. "Two, three, four."

When Louis touches Harry's thumb, it feels warm.

He shouldn't be – this isn't what he's meant to be doing here.

"Guess you're right," Louis says, his voice as quiet and lovely as the night around them. "Looks like you've still got all your parts."

Harry swallows, and pushes himself to sitting again. His neck is cold where it's no longer resting against Louis' thighs.

"It's getting late," Louis decides, his hand returning to his side. He looks out over the property. "I'm getting a bit tired, are you?"

It doesn't matter whether it's a literal question or a metaphorical, hypothetical or rhetorical. Harry is exhausted to his bones. "Yeah."

"Let's get us to bed, then." Louis' hand is still warm where it grasps Harry's arm, and Harry is again reminded that Louis is stronger than he looks when he heaves Harry up without even grunting.

"You don't sleep with the rest of us," Harry points out as Louis gathers the last of the blankets from the porch.

"Doesn't mean I don't sleep," Louis says, sensibly. Harry had started thinking that he might sleep standing up, like a horse.

It's sort of a relief to learn that Louis does sleep, even if Harry still hasn't sussed out where.

"Come on, keep your balance, I've got you," Louis murmurs, his free arm around Harry's waist. Harry hadn't thought he was having trouble standing up, but he guesses he was or Louis wouldn't need to help him. "You're going to feel this tomorrow."

It's been a while since Harry's been drunk.

"It's been a while since I got drunk," Harry comments. His face is very close to Louis' face.

"It's been a while for me, too, but I'm willing to bet I still do it more often than you did." Something about Louis' laugh tonight keeps making Harry's stomach flutter, and he's not sure if it's nausea or panic.

Harry hums low in his throat. He doesn't feel like throwing up, which is a good sign, but he probably will have cotton in his head tomorrow morning. "I drank some as a teenager," he says. "Got in trouble a lot 'fore I straightened out. Now look at me. I'm here."

"Now you're here." There's nothing in Louis' voice to suggest how he feels about that. "And now you're here."

Harry hums again, satisfied. His hair feels much fluffier now that Louis combed it with his fingers.

"And here we are." Louis' voice is hushed, and Harry looks around to find they're in the sleeping room, everybody else already settled down in their places.

Zayn is cuddled around Perrie now, but Niall is still wrapped around Zayn.

"Sleep well, George." While Harry's been watching people, Louis has been setting up the blankets to make his bednest.

It's nowhere near Jesy, Harry notices. Or Lou, or anyone else. Louis wants Harry to sleep by himself. It doesn't feel like as much of a rejection as it might.

The blankets are comfortable. His back still protests but he doesn't notice as much, and he's warm and drunk and sleepy.

"There we go," Louis whispers. He pets Harry's hair back a last time and then tucks the blankets around him. This will be the first night Harry's slept in clothes since he arrived here.

"It was nice to have you." There's a pressure on Harry's forehead, light and damp. He thinks Louis just kissed him. "Join us again next time."

Harry blinks, but his eyes don't open again until the morning.

When he wishes they hadn't. He has never, in his life, had such a headache.

"Oh my god," he groans, yanking the blanket over his face and slamming his eyes shut again. Too bright. Too bright, too much light, too much.

His toes are very cold. Why are his toes cold? 

“Up and at them, George!” exclaims Satan from much too close to his ear. “I need your assistance!”

Harry makes a noise that might come from either his nose or his bowels. He’s not sure anymore. He’s been turned inside out.

“Don’t be a baby.” The Devil has no sympathy for him. “Up, up. It’s already late.”

Harry rolls over. This floor smells terrible. He doesn’t even want to know what his face has landed in.

Finally, the voice seems to have had enough, and heaves Harry up in one swoop. The world tilts alarmingly, and Harry’s stomach lurches so hard that he very nearly throws up right there.

“Hey, hey, hey.” It’s just Lou. “This is why I hate when you men go out and drink that shit. You’re all bigger babies than Lux for a day after.”

“Hey.” That’s Louis, Harry recognizes the voice now. “That’s not nice.”

“You,” Lou says, witheringly. “You need to get up, too. You lump.”

“I like it down here.” Louis coughs. “It’s nice and still.”

“Every damn time,” Lou mutters. “You are shit at holding your liquor, Louis.”

“What’re you talking about?” It sounds like Louis finally sits up, though Harry can’t tell very well, his eyes still closed.

“You passed out again,” Lou says. “And you all stink. Now go. You missed breakfast. Do your work.” She lets go of Harry and he slumps onto the floor again. “Lousy men.”

“ _Lousy men_ ,” Louis mimics. It’s very childish, and it makes Harry laugh even though his head is throbbing.

Eventually, he can open his eyes enough to see Louis slumped against his favorite chair in the middle of the sleeping room.

“Hello, stranger,” Louis croaks.

“Hi.” His own voice is nothing pretty, and he’d clear his throat if he didn’t already know how much it would hurt his head. “Wild night.”

“Ain’t seen nothing yet.” Louis rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I think… we’re not hammering today.”

“I like that plan,” Harry agrees. “Anything left that doesn’t need to be hammered?”

“I don’t even remember what we were building,” Louis moans. “I just know that I don’t want to hammer.”

“The present thing.” He doesn’t know where the twins are, but it won’t be much of a surprise gift if he goes blurting about it everywhere. “Big — thing, with walls.”

“Right, right.” Louis rolls off the chair and lands on the floor in a heap, where he starts crawling towards the door. “Let’s go… screwdriver things.”

The staircase is hell to navigate, but eventually, what feels like hours later, they’re in the dollhouse room, and Louis slumps dramatically across the table.

“That was enough work for today,” Harry suggests. He’s still curled up on the floor. “Right?”

Louis groans despondently. “No. Have to set… a good example, Georgie. Georgie boy.”

“Do we?” Harry asks. “Can’t we pretend do? Don’t and say we did?”

“That’s lying.” Louis still manages to sound reproachful even with stray leaves in his hair. “We can. Sort things. Do the screwdriver. Maybe measure some bits.”

Once they get started, it’s easier to continue, even though Harry’s headache doesn’t quite leave. There’s no hammering, at least; it’s all screwdrivers and rulers.

They’re even able to fashion some pieces of the flooring and a few little chairs just by using screws and pegs. The hours stretch like painful, painful years, but they manage to have a productive day.

“That’s a wall, isn’t it?” Louis asks, sitting back and looking at their work. He’s not as bright-eyed as usual, but he’s worked up more of his usual temperament. “That counts as a wall, doesn’t it?”

“Looks like a wall to me,” Harry agrees. By afternoon, he’s even only seeing singularly again.

“That’s a quarter of the way to a room!” Louis sounds as cheerful as he could, after the night they had, a smile spreading on his face.

“Success!” Harry says, and lifts his mouth into a smile with two fingers, because his actual face muscles are still too hungover.

Louis leans over and kisses one of Harry’s propped-up cheeks.

It’s alarming. Most of the reason Harry doesn’t jump at the contact is because he doesn’t think he’s capable, right now, but if he was, he probably would have. Louis probably _did_ kiss his forehead last night, then. He hasn’t moved away either time. He should have. He would have.

But he hasn’t wanted to, and it’s less of a shock than it should be.

It's the middle of the night when Harry finds Louis out on the rickety front porch of the farmhouse, pumpkin guts all around him and a knife in his hand.

"What are you doing?" Harry asks, hanging back by the door. The October air is cold against his chest, and he's somehow more aware of it because Louis is there than he would be otherwise.

"Shhh." Louis gestures with one orange hand to his lips. "Shut the door. The twins don't sleep deeply, and I want it to be a surprise."

"What?" Harry steps out onto the porch and shuts the door. 

Louis turns the pumpkin around in his lap to show Harry the half-hewn, jolly Jack-O-Lantern face. "I always liked carving pumpkins at Halloween, but they're too little for knives this big, I think. I thought I'd set them up as a treat for everyone to surprise them in the morning."

"They'll like that." Harry smiles, crouching to get a better look at the lines that the knife has carved. "They'll be upset they can't get as messy this way, though. Neither of them's happy unless they need a bath, are they?"

Louis laughs, adoring, and gives his pumpkin more teeth. "Nope. But who is, really? That's what life is, y'know. Messy."

"It doesn't have to be." Harry settles himself on the stairs at Louis' feet. He knows that Louis wouldn't ever command him to sit there, but it's as good a place as any and he doesn't mind too much. "Life's what you make it."

Laughing again – when is Louis ever not laughing? – Louis pokes Harry's shoulder with his toes. "But what's the point of a clean life? There's no mischief in it."

"You would be upset about a life without mischief," Harry shoots back at him, tilting his head until he can see Louis properly. "I'm just fine being calm and out of trouble."

"Square," Louis teases. "If you're going to sit out here and catch chill, you could at least grab a knife and help me. I'm trying to make Raggedy Ann and Andy."

"I never did like Andy," Harry comments. "Seemed like overkill."

He does pop back into the house for another knife, and then settles back into his spot on the steps. There are three other pumpkins and Louis hands him one of them, showing him how to cut in to take the top off.

"Is this where you've been, then?" Harry asks, carefully inserting the knife into the pumpkin. "Nobody could find you after dinner."

Louis nods, his eyebrows furrowed as he tries to cut perfect circles in the cheeks of imperfectly wrinkled pumpkin flesh. "I had to take the truck to town and barter for them. Took a while to find someone willing."

"I could've come with you." Harry nudges his shoulder against Louis' knee. "You know nobody likes it when you leave on your own."

Granted, Harry also just likes to keep an eye on Louis, but it's true that whenever he can't be found or whenever he leaves on an adventure into town, everybody gets very nervous.

Harry does, too, but that's only because if Louis disappears out from right under Harry's nose, Liam and Nick will eat his paperwork for breakfast, and that's never pleasant. That's all.

"I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself." Louis only sounds amused, looking at Harry with indulgent fondness. "You worry too much."

"Someone has to," Harry says. He wrestles the lid from his pumpkin and reaches in to pull out a handful of goopy orange guts and seeds.

Just to prove Louis wrong, Harry might flick a bit of it at him.

"This is disgusting," he announces, staring at his hand covered in freezing cold pumpkin vomit. "It's all squelchy."

"Don't waste it!" Louis pushes a bowl over to Harry. "We're gonna use it. For seeds to eat. And maybe plant; I'll ask Jade. She's better at gardening."

"So that we could have our own little pumpkin patch?" Harry smiles at the thought. Very quaint. "I know a good recipe for pumpkin bread, if it comes to that."

"I think we're using the wrong bit of pumpkin for that, love," Louis says cheerfully. "But we could try." He smiles at Harry, and it's... silent, outside, and warm in Louis' eyes.

"We could try," Harry agrees quietly. He plunks his pumpkin guts into the bowl.

It's nice to be alone, even if it's alone with Louis – maybe especially because it's alone with Louis – when Harry's become so used to being surrounded by people and noise and clatter at all hours of every day.

He minds it less than he did when he got here. It's less grating once he's been here for long enough that he understands who to avoid when and which people he gets along with more than others.

He never minds being around Louis.

That should be less of a revelation than it is.

Harry clears his throat, coughs, and busies himself getting the rest of the inside of the pumpkin out. "Missed you, a little," he mutters.

Louis twinkles like a Lite Brite. "Missed you, too, babe. Miss all my loves."

"Well, you do have quite a few of them," remarks Harry. He scoops one last handful of guts into the bowl and peers into it. "I think that's this one done."

Louis doesn't say anything for surprisingly long, given that he's rarely stopped talking since Harry met him, and Harry finally cranes his neck back to look up at Louis on the step above him. 

He isn't smiling so widely now. "I missed you, too," he murmurs finally. "Just as yourself, George."

It's easy, then, to lean his head against Louis' knee and just breathe for a moment. In, and out. He's struck, not for the first time, with the desire to hear what his real name sounds like in Louis' voice.

"You're awfully far, all the way down there," Louis says quietly. "Come on up here and help me get these candles in."

Harry eases back up onto his feet carefully, setting the knife down before he does because his hands are shaking a little and with his luck, he'll cut his hand off.

He sits close enough to Louis that their thighs brush, and Harry shivers.

"Cold, love?" Louis asks, looking at Harry from under his eyelashes. His voice is very soft and sweet at night.

"A little." It's quite a cold night, with the sky dark and the wind sweeping through the grass. Harry's not very cold, but it's as good an answer as any of the other ones he could have given.

Louis shrugs off the fringed jacket and then they both look down at it, their hands too encrusted with pumpkin fibers to want to touch it. "Well."

Harry snorts.

"Thought that counts, isn't it?" asks Louis. They're sitting very close together.

Harry nods, throat a bit dry. It isn't... when he's been this close before to the people he was investigating, he'd been nervous, but not... like this.

This is butterflies-in-his-stomach nervous, nervous like he'd been before he kissed someone for the first time. This is a whole different kind of nervous than he's been trained to deal with.

It’s the kind of nervous he'd been trained in the first place to get rid of. This wanting-to-kiss-boys feeling fluttering in his chest.

And he isn't stupid; he knows this is what he and Louis have been building up to since the moment they'd seen each other, but for some reason he hadn't expected that all the buildup would ever come to a head. This feels like it's about to happen, something is about to happen and Harry's never felt more out of his depth.

He thinks about what he's seen across the big bedroom at night, Zayn and Niall pressed together. He isn't cold anymore.

"You okay, George?" Louis asks. He's quiet, and looking at Harry, and he's pretty and tan and has the bluest eyes Harry's ever seen.

Before Harry's even finished nodding, Louis' lips are on his. His facial hair scratches at Harry's chin and upper lip, and he's never felt anything like it: the first and last time he'd let himself kiss a boy, they'd both been too young to grow mustaches.

He's hungry for it, desperate for it, and it seems Louis feels the same, because there are about two seconds in between the beginning of the kiss and Harry gripping Louis' hips to pull him closer, and Louis getting his arms around Harry's neck.

It's amazing, terrifying, perfect. Harry hasn't kissed somebody like this, like he _wants_ to kiss them in forever, and he's certainly never kissed someone like Louis.

There's a clatter at their feet and Harry realizes he's only just now dropping the knife. He's never been this close to a suspect at all, much less one who was, technically, armed.

But Harry feels... safe. He _feels_. So he doesn't care.

Louis has a hand in his hair, his fingers gently woven into the back where it's gotten even longer than it was when Harry arrived, and Harry should be frightened, he should be thinking of ways to get Louis' hands away from his neck, he should be thinking of anything besides the things he's thinking, which mostly involve Louis wearing less than he is right now.

The thing is, for all that Louis' personality is huge – all-consuming – Louis himself is small, and Harry can wrap around him even as Louis is getting hands all over him. They're absorbed in each other.

He likes that Louis needs to tip his head up in order to kiss him. He likes that a lot.

He barely pulls back to breathe and when he does, Harry gets a lungful of the smell of Louis, all hay and dirt and pumpkin and man, man, man.

_That_ is something he likes. A lot.

"Okay?" asks Louis in a whisper, his forehead pressed against Harry's. He sounds short of breath and Harry's proud he caused that.

"Yeah," Harry manages, throat dry and full of heart. "You okay?"

He can feel Louis' smile against his own mouth. "I'm always okay," he says, lightly. "More okay with you."

Harry blinks, swallows. "So what now?"

Because he knows, really, how this works. Louis is everyone's, not his.

"What do you want to happen now?" Louis asks. His thumbs are pressed just in front of Harry's ears, and his eyes are scanning Harry's face like he's trying to find something.

Harry hasn't gotten what he's wanted in... ten years, at least. If he ever did.

He doesn't really know how to respond when it's someone asking what he wants. His automatic reaction should be not to want anything like this, but he can't make himself say that.

What would George want, then, if Harry doesn't know what he wants himself?

It's easy to fall back into George. Less exposed, like this, less vulnerable, it doesn't give Louis the ability to reach inside him and pull out broken pieces to put back together. He touches Louis' cheek and swallows, breathing out. "I don't know," he whispers. "I just know I want you."

Louis breathes out, tiptoeing to bite softly at Harry's lower lip. "That can be arranged, I think."

"Can it?" The expression of wide-eyed eagerness isn't as hard to manufacture as Harry might want it to be. "Please?"

Toying with the hair at the nape of Harry's neck, Louis nods, stepping up close enough that there's warmth everywhere, even in the chill breeze.

"I'd like that." And now Harry doesn't even know who's talking, whether it's him or him-as-George or if someone else entirely has jumped into his body and taken control.

Louis' eyes sparkle with mischief and he gives Harry's hair a light tug. "C'mon."

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	7. Chapter Seven

During his time here, Harry's learned over and over that mischief on Louis' face is always a precursor to trouble, but he's also learned that it's incredibly difficult to say no to him even when aware of that.

He lets Louis wrap his fingers around Harry's hand. They're both callused now, Harry thinks faintly, from working out in the field and the surrounding trees and from building to fix up this house.

They don't go into the house, though, like Harry thought they might. Instead, Louis pulls him down the steps and squeezes Harry's fingers while he leads the way off into the darkness.

It's not a direction that Harry has gone before, and his heart beats faster for more than one reason.

Louis' hand is warm, and reassuring, and strong. Harry clings to that.

Eventually, Louis skips a little in his excitement and Harry has to giggle, which makes Louis clamber up around Harry's neck again to kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

And Harry keeps thinking about how they're just standing in the grass in the dark and necking like teenagers and Louis has no idea who he is and Harry's supposed to be getting information on Louis to take him down and all he can think, all he can think is that he does want to take Louis down but it has nothing to do with his job.

Finally, with a breathless gasp, Louis pulls away again and laughs, "Alright, c'mon, we're nearly there. Menace."

Harry would protest that Louis is the one who started it, but he's not twelve. He's a grown man, and besides, there are more important things to worry about.

He follows the sound of Louis' feet traipsing through the frosty grass until finally there's a metallic thud, a _fuck, yes, that's where I left it_ , and a laugh. 

Headlights blare into Harry's eyes, and he staggers back, blinded. "What?"

"Come on!" says Louis impatiently. Harry really wishes he could _see_ to know where to _come on_ to.

"Are you going to run me over?"

There's a near-silent moment before Louis snorts. "After all the work I put into getting you here? No, just. Come here."

Harry blunders forward and there's a pickup truck. Harry's never seen it before, but Louis has mentioned it, in the vaguest terms, talking about how he gets to town and back. Harry had thought he must be making it up.

It's grayish in the dark, but in the light it's almost certainly an actual color. Harry only just manages to avoid tripping into its bumper.

Louis is standing in the back bed, hands on his hips like a crown prince surveying his kingdom.

In a lot of ways, Harry is his kingdom. Harry's let this happen; he's let Louis rule over him, he's let Louis win. That should make him angry.

He hoists himself up over the side, and settles at Louis' feet. Crown prince, indeed. Maybe Harry can manage beloved consort.

"So this is the famous truck?"

"This is the famous truck," Louis agrees. He sinks down to his knees. There's a softish cover on the bed of the truck, like maybe a blanket or two's been laid down. "Told you I wasn't making it up."

"You weren't hallucinating it, either," Harry says, and he settles down cross-legged in front of Louis, staring up at him for a change. "I thought maybe it was a metaphor."

"You're a metaphor," Louis replies immediately. Harry was partially expecting it.

"I might be." Harry waits for Louis to make the first move – just like he's been since he got here, waiting on Louis to take action.

Louis seems content to watch for a while. Just looking at Harry, leaned forward enough that his hands are braced on the points of Harry's knees. He tilts his head. Harry remembers when he was sure that was Louis' way of making people feel uncomfortable. He'd pretty sure it's actually his way of trying to figure people out.

He wonders what Louis has figured out about him.

"I've been wondering, George," Louis says softly, his voice velvet and honey, "If you'd ever realize how I feel about you."

"How you feel about me?" Harry parrots back. "I hadn't realized that you, um, felt about me in a particular. Way." Bit of a lie, but he really wants Louis to say it out loud, and, well, most of his life's about lying.

"I think you're a weird little cat," Louis says, and then his hands are on Harry's thighs. "But I like you."

"I'm glad," Harry replies. He settles his hands on the sides of Louis' neck. "That makes me really happy."

Louis giggles, nose wrinkling and eyes crinkling. "You're such a square. So polite."

"What's wrong with being polite?" Harry protests. Everything's gone slow and dreamy like his thoughts are made of syrup. He probably sounds like an idiot. "Manners and things. It's nice to be nice to people."

"Oh, I plan to be nice to you," Louis promises. "But it'll be rude."

"Not rudeness!" Harry exclaims with a gasp, holding a mocking hand to his chest. "You? Never."

Louis just smiles like Harry might be the best thing he's ever seen. "Shut up and kiss me."

At that point, it seems advantageous to listen. Men like Louis enjoy quick efficiency, and men like Harry enjoy, well, Louis.

The truck shifts under their weight, metal groaning like giant bedsprings.

The thought makes Harry flush, embarrassingly enough. He's never done this in a bed.

Well, technically, he's never done _this_ at all.

But Louis is smiling at him, and it doesn't look like a smirk.

"How are you doing, darling?" he says, tucking fingers into Harry's hair and smiling fondly at him. He's always saying things like that, jokey little nicknames like babe and love and darling. Harry thought it was patronizing at first, but for some reason, it's become one of the things about Louis that he likes best.

"Groovy," Harry says, and wraps his hands as much around Louis' biceps as he can. For a small, wiry man, he's surprisingly strong.

"Good." Louis kisses Harry again, leaning up against him until it's like Harry can feel Louis' entire body against his. It's nice, being this close to someone and really feeling a connection, feeling arousal, feeling genuinely wanted. He doesn't get this a lot, and feels warm inside and out with the pleasantness of it.

But they're outside, somewhere in the New England wilderness, and cold air lifts Harry's too-long hair and makes him shiver into Louis, pressing closer.

"Knew you were cold, you string bean," says Louis, his warm, warm hands sliding up the back of Harry's shirt. It tingles pleasantly everywhere his fingers touch.

"Well, we are outdoors at night in winter," Harry says.

"It's not winter," Louis laughs against Harry’s lips. "You're in for a shock if you think this is winter."

"It's cold," argues Harry. "No leaves on the trees. It's cold," he adds, in case Louis missed that part.

"City boy," Louis says fondly. He bites down on the plush of Harry's lower lip. "I can warm you up."

A frisson rolls down Harry's spine, a line of sparkling, crackly heat. He doesn't need to be warmed up anymore, but he nods anyway. "Yes, please," he replies. Despite how Louis mocks him, Harry knows that he loves Harry's politeness.

The way his eyes sparkle in the dark confirms it, his rough-callused hands under the flannel of Harry's shirt, smoothing long lines up and down the flat of Harry's back until they're used to each other's skin.

"You can – take it off? If you wanted to?" Harry offers. Forward, but he hates to dance around an issue, and he'd like his shirt off. Louis would clearly like his shirt off, even if it's winter, definitely winter, his shirt should probably be off.

"Wouldn't want you to catch a chill..."

" _Louis_." Harry reaches behind his neck and pulls the shirt off, dropping it beside them on the tin bed of the truck. His nipples immediately harden up with the passing breeze.

Louis' eyes dart down and then back up. His expression doesn't change, but Harry can see his throat bob. "Well," Louis says lightly, "if you're going to insist."

It's not like he's never seen Harry before; he's seen it all, everyone back at the compound has, at least all of the grown people. But this is the first time Louis's gotten to touch.

And touch he does, his palm in the center of Harry's chest, radiating heat. He leaves it there, looking at Harry, which is a thing he does more often than not, really.

"You done this before, sailor?"

Harry's lips turn down. "I'm not a sailor."

"Oh, I thought 'cause of the tattoos," Louis says, and his fingertips draw around the big black heart on Harry's arm – it's ugly and out of place, but there to cover his initiation tattoo from Chicago.

"Nope." He keeps his voice light as he looks down at it. He'd wanted something a bit better, but this one does the job and he'll be dead eventually, so it seems silly to get worked up over a little bit of ink in his skin.

Louis just makes an equivocating noise, stroking over the marks, and then leaning down to bite lightly at the birds over Harry's clavicle.

"I like these," he says with a decisive note in his voice. "They're cute like you."

"You're cute," Harry retorts, starting on the buttons of Louis' shirt. If he's going to be cold out here, then Louis will, too.

There are far too many of the damn things, and it's buttoned up to the neck, and Louis doesn't help at all. He just sits there with an amused look and tips his chin up when Harry gets to the top.

He's letting Harry choose. Harry's never been able to really choose whether he wants this; even if the opportunity's been there, he's always been playing a part.

Even now, he's playing a part. He's still George. But maybe George is more Harry than Harry is.

He doesn't know. What he does know is that Louis is no longer wearing a shirt, and that's very important. Not only because of what they’re doing — Harry’s wanted to know what Louis is hiding under his shirt for a long time.

If Harry has a few tattoos, Louis is _littered_ with them.

"Wow," Harry breathes, tracing fingertips over the lines of ink, some faded, some darker. "Where'd you get all of those?"

Louis' eyes shutter a bit. "Here, there, and everywhere."

He clearly doesn't want to talk about it, so Harry won't make him. "I like that song," he comments, trailing his fingers up to Louis' neck.

"You have terrible taste in music," Louis answers, leaning in to kiss Harry again, conversation time clearly over.

Louis kisses like he's on a mission and he's taking Harry with him. When Harry slides his hands back down Louis' spine, he's half expecting to be able to feel his tattoos like scars raised on his skin, but it's all smooth heat.

On Louis' collarbone, though, just where Harry has his birds, Louis does have a scar – jagged and round and red and familiar.

Someone, at some point in time, for some reason, shot him.

Harry brushes his thumb over the mark and tries not to pull back and ask _what did you do?_

Louis grips his wrist and physically pulls his hand away from the scar, leaning back and pulling Harry along with him until they're both more or less horizontal, Harry hovering over Louis with one hand planted on the bed of the truck.

Louis' breathing is a bit ragged when he pulls his mouth away, and his grip stays tight around Harry's fingers. "Done this with anyone, then?"

"No," Harry mumbles. He kisses Louis again, hoping that'll distract him from the answer. He doesn't... it took him a long time to come to terms with the fact that he didn't like girls, or rather that he liked boys a whole lot more, and he just never had the opportunity to do anything about it.

"Wait, really?" Louis squirms up onto his elbows. "Was that your actual first time, man, when you got here?"

"No! I meant–" Harry blusters.

Louis looks at him like he's waiting for him to finish his sentence, but Harry just stops talking. You don't _talk_ about this kind of thing before you do it. You just do it.

So he does, he leans down and kisses Louis again, beard and scruff rubbing Harry's skin pink.

He likes that. He's never had that before, and it feels good.

Louis' fingers are soft as he toys with one of Harry's curls, low by the curve of his jaw because his hair is just too damn long. "Had you wanted to?"

Something about the way he asks makes Harry's breath catch. "Yeah," he admits, soft, but not so soft that Louis can't hear it, close as he is. "I did. Do."

It's – strange, what Louis does next.

He leans up on an elbow, all compact lines in the dark, and winds his fingers through Harry's hair. And then he kisses his forehead, once, right between the eyes, gentle and lingering.

Harry closes his eyes and breathes: in once, out once. It's like everything's stopped except for them.

Because it's _nice_. It's is gentle, and it's sweet, and it's _nice_. For all that Harry's always done what – who – he's supposed to, because he’d always been told that this was supposed to be so barbaric and animal and painful and wrong, he can't think of the last time he just had... nice.

"You're all sorts of wonderful," Louis whispers, and he kisses Harry's head again before he leans back down propped up on his elbows.

He smiles at Harry, keeps smiling; he never stops smiling at Harry. "So, Georgie, what do you want?"

It's startling, almost, to be called that when they're like this, so close and intimate.

He wants...

It would be awful and wonderful at once to get to do this as himself.

_Maybe someday_ , he thinks, wildly. Someday won't come. There's so many reasons someday won't come: Louis is about two steps away from being a criminal, and Harry catches criminals for a living. It wouldn't work. Won't work, ever.

But he so does want it to.

And even if it did, what would he say? _By the by, my name's actually Harry Styles and I'm a fed?_

Even if he could, he can’t. Because, and he can admit it to himself at least, Louis would never trust him again. Harry likes that Louis trusts him. Not just because it’s his job.

His face feels more open – more naked – than even the night sky above them. "I just want you."

Louis’ mouth curves into a smile, and most of his smiles are too mischievous to be anything but smirks. This one isn’t. This one’s just a smile. “Lucky me,” he murmurs.

He hooks a leg around Harry's knees and flips them over, and it's startling enough to be so suddenly vulnerable under Louis that Harry's self-defense training has flown out of his head. If he didn't want to be beneath Louis, he knows nine ways to get out. But he wants to be here.

“Just like that,” Louis tells him. He noses under Harry’s jaw, leaving kisses on his skin and smiling enough that Harry can feel it. “Just how I want you.”

Louis' shoulders are so much broader than his hips, and there's a fair shag of silky hair on his chest, and everything about him screams _man_.

It’s everything Harry’s trained himself out of wanting. It’s everything he’s told himself he can’t have. And now it’s right there, and Louis is inviting him to take it.

Louis' weight is welcome and warm as he settles down against Harry, and there's a wild moment of panic as it's clear that Louis can feel that Harry's harder than he's ever been before Harry remembers that right, yes, that's why they're here.

“Your heart’s racing,” Louis whispers. He’s pressed his chest against Harry’s, his eyes closed, his fingers tracing lines up Harry’s ribs.

"Sorry." Harry's lips feel dry, despite all the kissing, and he licks them fruitlessly. 

"You don't have to be nervous," Louis says. "I mean if you can help it. I'm not – it's been a while for me, too."

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” says Harry delicately. It’s true that Louis hasn’t ever participated in the orgies, at least not ones Harry’s been to, but, well. Louis is Louis.

Harry sort of figured that he just picked and chose his way through the family as the whim struck him.

Apparently not. He does feel a bit better. Like he’s special.

Louis kisses his way down over Harry's jaw and neck, pausing to nibble at the black birds on Harry's collarbone. "Navy?"

“What?” asks Harry. Really odd of Louis to expect coherent conversation when he’s doing that. Harry was never taught to handle interrogation while being nibbled.

Louis' nose nudges into the hollow cradle under the bone and before the muscle of Harry's chest. His breath is warm enough to raise goosebumps against the cold October air. "They’re sailing tattoos, those, and you said you weren’t a sailor. Next guess is Navy."

“I just like birds,” mutters Harry. He’s so hard he could cry, and Louis has lifted his lower half up just enough that Harry has to move his hips into the air if he wants any friction.

Louis snorts, and then runs his lips over Harry's nipple, the soft wet of his mouth barely even pursed into a kiss.

Harry nearly shatters his elbow banging it into the bed of the truck, hard metal against bone. It’s an automatic reaction to a mouth on his nipple.

Louis is still giggling as he drags his mouth further, but stops as he pulls back in surprise. "Did you know you have an extra nipple down here?"

“I’ve got two, actually. Four total. Two extra.” Harry’s ears burn.

Louis' eyebrows raise as his eyes flash in delight. "Do they work?"

“How do you mean, do they work?” Harry laughs, the muscles in his stomach jumping. People aren’t usually so excited about his deformity. “They work as well as the normal ones do.”

Louis' response is, of course, to duck his head immediately and lick at the smaller nipple dotting the right side of Harry's ribs.

Harry’s hips jerk up this time, his legs nearly wrapping around Louis’ hips before he thinks better of it. They’re not more sensitive than his main ones, but Louis’ mouth on his skin makes him buzz.

Louis groans, busying himself with giving all of Harry's nipples a thorough examination with his lips and teeth and tongue. It's all Harry can do to run his own hands through Louis' hair, holding it back from his face so he can see the dark fire in Louis' eyes.

His nipples ache, tight, whenever Louis finishes with one. He can feel the flush on his face, soothed by the wind stinging his cheeks whenever a breeze rolls by.

Eventually Louis's shimmied himself low enough on Harry's body to breathe warm air over the hard shape of his cock beneath his underwear.

“Please?” asks Harry. His throat is closing up; his tongue too big for his mouth, but he wants Louis’ damnable lips on his cock more than he can say in words.

When Louis looks up at Harry, he's actually drooling for it, his lower lip shining.

“Just tug on my ear if it’s too much,” he says, and then his fingers are peeling down Harry’s underwear and he’s licked his lips and his head ducks and Harry almost dies, he swears.

It's not like he hasn't become more... worldly about these things, since he arrived at the farmhouse, but god, he hasn't felt anything like Louis' mouth before.

He wants his hands in Louis’ hair, but knows that he’ll pull it if he does, and there’s no good outcome to that. Instead, he fists his hands at his sides and does his level best to keep his hips where they are.

He can't help his hips moving, though, twitching them up towards Louis' mouth every time he so much as takes a breath because the idea of this ending is heartbreaking.

Louis’ mouth is all warm wet heat, and he knows exactly when and how much to use his tongue, and his fingers are wrapped lightly around the base of Harry’s dick, not moving, just resting.

It's hard work to keep from moaning aloud. Harry's cheek is bitten raw from trying to keep quiet and still, to keep the words from spilling out of his own mouth.

“I want to hear you.” Louis’ eyes flash in the night, his tongue slicking out over his lips. “Just us out here. Let me hear you.”

Harry bites his lip so hard it turns white, shaking his head. It's private; this is private.

Louis tilts his head and presses a kiss to Harry’s hip. “Suit yourself,” he accepts, his mouth returning to its prior activities.

But he does something with his tongue that Harry just can't keep quiet about. "Fuck, Louis, that's – I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say – "

Louis grins at him with crinkly eyes. “Didn’t mean to say?” he prompts.

Harry goes red again and shakes his head. "Sorry, I just – not trying to call attention."

“You can draw however much attention you want.” Louis’ smile doesn’t fade. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, sex. It’s a good thing.”

He noses at Harry's hipbone, just over the black roses that cover up a tattoo Harry can never admit to having. "'Specially if it feels this good."

Harry tucks his lips between his teeth, bites down and shakes his head. He can’t. It’s just not how he works.

"Wish I knew where you came from," Louis comments idly, sitting up between Harry's knees, but keeping one hand around Harry's cock. He gives it a little squeeze and a soothing stroke. "So I could go back and pop 'em one for making you think you aren't gorgeous like this."

Harry opens his mouth, and for a moment, one brief moment, nearly tells Louis everything about him. His name, his job, where he’s from, where he’s going, everything.

And then he closes it again. Stupid. Stupid, stupid man who’s still a boy in all the ways that count.

"Don't want to think about that," he manages. "Just want to be here with you. Now. Like you always say."

“Live in the now,” Louis agrees. He leans up and presses a sticky kiss to Harry’s cheek. “You should know, though. You’re gorgeous.”

Harry nods faintly.

“Good.” Louis grins at him again and it’s just as breathtaking as it always is. Damn Louis and his face for making Harry’s job all the more difficult.

The front of Louis' pants are tented out far enough to prove his words. 

"Did you want – how d'you want me?" Harry asks, reaching out for Louis' trim waist.

“I want you however you’d like to be,” says Louis, shuffling forward and settling himself over Harry’s hips. “Come on, tell me. I’m all yours.” He holds his arms out.

It doesn't seem like a manipulation, is the thing. It doesn't seem like he's going to turn around and say, _no, because I actually want this and it's mine because I'm your savior and I'm going to take it_.

That’s the main reason Harry says, “I want you – in me. If that’s, if that’s okay. Just, that’s what I want.”

It feels like time stops.

It feels like his heart's stopped.

It feels like suddenly the flood lights will come on and they'll be surrounded as Louis pulls a badge on him and says, _gotcha_.

He doesn’t. He just cups Harry’s cheek in his hand and says, “Of course it’s okay. Of course.”

Harry's breath stutters as he exhales against the bulb of Louis' palm. 

This, this is how he gets you.

He just accepts you as you are.

He gets you by not getting you at all. By making you think that he won’t hurt you, he won’t do anything you don’t want, he just wants to make you happy. Louis right now could hurt him worse than anybody else in the world. So, of course, he doesn’t.

Because that’s how it works, trust. And Harry trusts Louis.

Shit. When did _that_ happen?

Louis leans over to shuffle through some things at the back of the truck, which is good because it means he doesn’t witness Harry having a minor crisis.

He knows, is the thing, that the protocol now is to make an excuse, get out of this truck, pretend it never happened, and find a way into the nearest town tomorrow to phone Liam and pull himself out.

He’s clearly been compromised. He’s clearly lost direction of the mission. He’s clearly fallen under Louis’ spell, which is the exact thing he wasn’t meant to do. He needs to get out. He’s failed his assignment.

He's failed everything. He's failing being Harry Styles.

“You all right, babe?” Louis asks him. He sounds cautious, so Harry supposes something of what he’s feeling must be on his face.

He's holding a white tube in one hand and has hauled a blanket from somewhere, holding that in the crook of his other arm. Harry can recognize Lou's messy knitting in its weave.

“Yeah,” he says slowly. He feels like he’s trying to speak from underwater. “Yeah. Good.”

But he isn't, really, because the only reason he hasn't seen Louis fucking everything in the house with legs is because he doesn't fuck legged things in the house, he does it out here in his Shaggin' Wagon.

Louis holds up the tube with a sheepish expression. “Hard for a man to find time to himself in the house,” he says. “Sometimes come out here for alone time.”

Harry frowns, his knees still tucked close together again. "Couldn't you just tell everyone to give you some space if you wanted it?"

“Have you met my sisters?” Louis laughs, and knees over to him again. “They’d say okay and then bust in while I’m in the middle. They’d think it was the funniest thing ever.”

Harry can't help barking a laugh at the disgruntlement in Louis' voice. "So all those afternoons you disappeared, you weren't even doing anything important, you were just out here – doing that?"

“Hey, I happen to think it’s very important.” Louis waves the hand clutching the tube around. “I have to clean the pipes every so often, or I’ll get clogged.”

"That's not even true," Harry says. "I haven't... danced with Rosie Palmer... in ages and I'm fine."

"No, that's because you've been having actual sex with actual people and torturing me!"

“How’ve I been torturing you?” Harry holds a hand to his chest in offense. “I’ve been right here!”

Louis sheds his underwear and then he's naked, miles of skin and scar and tattoo ink, easing himself back into Harry's space, leaning down to exhale hot over Harry's cock again just to tease. "Because I've had to watch you since you came here getting on and getting off with everyone else even though you're so gorgeous and so great and I was sure you were so totally straight."

“Were you not paying attention that first time, with Jesy?” Harry asks, one hand settling on Louis’ hair. Not in it. Just on it, feeling how soft it is.

"She's just intimidating," Louis laughs. "She could do better than any of us. But fortunately for me, you're right on my level."

“Don’t know if that’s a compliment or not,” Harry muses as Louis presses a kiss to his wrist.

Louis sucks lightly on the tip of Harry's finger. "It's a compliment. Harmony and all that."

“Feeling very harmonious right about now.” Harry smiles. He can’t not. He can’t not smile when Louis is being so soft and warm and… cuddly.

Louis' teeth scrape up the pale inside of Harry's forearm. He's never met anyone in his life as intensely tactile and sexual as Louis, and it's never even come across before tonight. It feels like something that can belong to him. "Good."

Harry thumbs at Louis’ lower lip, dark and wet, and the knowledge of why makes him shiver. “I’m ready,” he says. He is. He’s ready. Damn him to hell and back, but this is what he wants.

Louis' eyelashes flutter, like the idea's made him come undone.

It’d be lying, if Harry were to say that he’s never thought about what Louis might look like naked. More tattooed than he was expecting, but just as curvy and tan and lovely.

He hasn't really looked at the – he hasn't inspected the merchandise, yet.

Louis raises his eyebrows. “Sure?” he asks quietly. Harry’s positive that if he were to change his mind, Louis would let it go. Wouldn’t even hold ill will about it.

He isn't really hard anymore, just because it's cold and he's nervous and Louis hasn't touched his cock in a bit and he's not as young as he used to be, but he nods.

Harry’s never been naked with another man. It’s a heady experience.

Outside of locker rooms and academy showers, things like that. Places where he _couldn't_ look or he'd end up with a face full of floor.

So maybe he should say he’s never been naked with another man like _this_ , where he can look all he wants and Louis likes it and Louis wants Harry to look, and soon they’re going to do more than just look. Harry feels dizzy in the best sort of way.

The heat coming off Louis' skin is scalding.

“It’s gonna be cold at first but it’ll warm up.” He sets a palm at Harry’s waist. “Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”

Harry nods, and he wraps his hands around Louis' biceps just to see whether he can. His fingers don't touch, the muscle there surprising in its smooth bulk, and under his fingers, the skin is carved through beneath black ink with the divots of scars.

Harry doesn’t ask. Louis won’t tell, he knows that.

All the same, he wants –

You can't really ever fix scars. Harry knows that, probably as well as Louis does.

But he props up on his elbow and kisses over Louis' arm anyway, gentle.

The muscle goes tense underneath his lips, and then relaxes again. “What’re you doing?” Louis asks, fond, his fingers carding through the back of Harry’s hair.

Harry blushes and hides his face in the gap between Louis' arm and ribs. There's a sour-tang smell, but Harry likes it.

“Hey, don’t do that,” says Louis. He leans back, and cups Harry’s face in both hands. “I liked it. Thank you.”

Harry's never been _thanked_ during sex before. During, anyway, sometimes he's been thanked after.

It doesn’t make him less embarrassed but does make him a little more pleased with himself. At least he’s not made Louis refuse to sleep with him.

Louis' hands are smoothing over Harry's thighs, up and down, until his thighs relax enough to fall open.

“There we go,” says Louis, quiet and delighted. He shuffles back down to where he was and pops the cap on the tube in his hand.

"What's that?" Harry asks, shifting up a little in the truck bed.

“Ease the way.” Louis wriggles his fingers at Harry. “So I don’t hurt you.”

Nervous breath punches out of Harry. 

He's been _tortured_ , for pete's sake, but the idea of this is a million times more... just more.

“Which I’m gonna do my best not to,” Louis adds quickly. Harry wonders if he just instinctively knows or if his training’s gone to shit.

Harry nods. "Have – does it usually hurt?"

“It can, if you don’t take your time with it.” Louis nods. “But we’ve got all the time in the world, and I’m not going to hurt you.” He sounds sure of it.

He punctuates his words with a little kiss to Harry's knee, right over a scar he'd gotten before any of the rest – just when he was a little kid and fell off his bicycle in front of the Trupios' yard.

“Okay,” Harry decides. Pain shouldn’t be an issue. He’s had a lot of pain in his life, but this feels... Different. More dangerous.

Louis shuffles down until he's – well, he's looking right at it, him, Harry, right between his legs, and Harry's face feels like it's probably lighting up the entire field it's so hot.

He kisses Harry's inner thigh and does more of his nuzzling, right along the crease of Harry's hip. "You're so tense." Louis gives Harry's navel a tweak. "Try to relax, okay?"

Harry nods, then realizes Louis probably can't see his face if he's down between the knee-area. "Yeah – I. Sorry."

And then he gasps in surprise, because Louis' tongue slides softly over the head of Harry's cock as one fingertip gentle pets at the too-tight furl of muscle that Harry just can't seem to relax. 

"Don't be sorry," Louis murmurs. He licks delicately around the crown of foreskin. "Just be in the moment."

Right, be in the moment, just like Louis always says. Harry isn't sure he knows how. He's never been in the moment, always ahead of the moment, thinking of all the ramifications that there could be if he makes one wrong decision.

He doesn't do this. But he's doing this. So maybe he should try other new things as well.

He exhales and it turns into a low, appreciative groan as Louis sinks his mouth over Harry's dick again, pulling up in soft wet sucks that just tease, a distraction as he starts to work his finger into Harry.

For the most part, it's an unfamiliar feeling. There had been times, in the dead of night when he was alone in the room he'd had in his parents' house, after Gemma left for college and he'd just felt so, so alone, with nobody to talk to about the new things he was feeling, when he'd closed his eyes and touched himself there. Just to try it. Just to see what it felt like.

But the bed would creak or Dusty would land on the floor in a thump and he'd get startled and hot and _guilty_. So he'd always stopped, and tried to picture sloping hips or small waists or soft, red mouths instead, like he was supposed to.

(But Louis has all of those things, too.)

And Louis can touch him like this, how Harry's always wanted to be touched. Louis has one strong hand on his hip and the other lower, and it's everything. Louis is everything.

"There you go," Louis murmurs, and smudges his beard across the hollow of Harry's hip just to tickle and make him laugh. "You're letting me in now."

Harry doesn't say that he let Louis in a long time ago, but it's true. At some point, Louis wormed his way into Harry, and Harry has no idea how he'll get Louis out.

"I'm gonna add another finger," Louis murmurs. "Okay?"

The first finger doesn’t feel too bad, when Harry wriggles a little. It's not as painful as he expected it to be. Once he's relaxed, it's actually sort of nice.

"That's it," Louis encourages. "You're always wound so tight, Georgie, but you don't have to be. This is all there is, man, just... love."

And that hurts, because Harry knows that Louis doesn't mean _they're in love_ , or anything, just that his whole lifestyle is based on the idea of free love for all. But Harry doesn't want some of Louis' free love, he wants to buy it all and keep it with him in his wallet, something that he can guard from getting stolen.

If some of it's all he can have, then he'll take that. But he won't stop wanting more. Whatever Louis gives him is what he'll accept, and he'll keep it secret in the darkest parts of him where he doesn't let anyone else see.

"I can't wait to get inside you," Louis says, and then his cheeks flush, and that's nice – it's nice to know that Harry isn't the only one who's feeling overwhelmed.

"I'm really looking forward to it," Harry replies, before wondering if that's not what you say, to someone who's about to – to fuck you. He might be doing it wrong.

Louis giggles. "So formal! I feel like I need a top hat and a bow tie."

The thought of Louis putting clothes back on is agonizing. "No," he rushes to say. "No, please, no. Just as you are."

"Guess I could," Louis agrees. "Do you think you're ready?"

"Am I?" Harry wouldn't know. At the moment, it doesn't seem like anything the size of what Louis is working with would fit inside him, but then, people do this all the time. Some people do, anyway.

"You're the only one who can decide that," says Louis, and then he twists his fingers in a way that makes Harry gasp and shake.

"I don't know, yes," Harry decides, his thighs still trembling. Whatever just happened, he wants it to happen again, and maybe never stop happening.

Louis' eyes are bigger than the moon overhead when he nods.

Harry fists his hands together again just in case, in case it still hurts terribly and he has to do something rather than shout. He doesn't want to shout, it's the thing he least wants out of everything. "I'm ready," he says more decisively.

Louis' skin slides along every inch of Harry's as he fits himself like a puzzle piece over Harry.

"Lift your leg a bit," he instructs, his hand gripping Harry's thigh, just above the knee. "Up and back."

Harry does, letting the weight of Louis' hand guide him.

"That's just perfect." There's a slick noise, when Louis must be giving himself another stroke or two, and then his warm, slippery hand closes around Harry's dick to give him a pull as well.

Harry's eyes flutter shut, and it's a surprise when suddenly Louis is fitting his mouth to Harry's again, gently, teasing a kiss to his lower lip.

It's almost enough to distract him from the pressure of Louis pushing into him. A dick's bigger than fingers, much bigger, and even the best kiss in the world wouldn't be enough to distract him from the feeling of it.

Louis pulls back and nudges his nose against Harry's cheekbone. "You alright?"

All Harry can manage is a choked whimper, one that hurts his throat, and a hand scrabbling for Louis biceps.

"Hey," Louis murmurs, and it's lower now, deep in this throat and growly at the edges, his voice unspooling from the inside out just like Harry is. "Are you okay? Does it hurt?"

"A little," Harry replies, attempting to take deep breaths. "I don't mind it, though. Don't leave?"

"I won't leave, love," Louis promises, and kissing over the jumping vein in Harry's neck. "I'm not gonna leave."

"Good." Harry breathes out, then in again. The more he breathes, the less throbbing in his temples, the less sharp pain below his waist.

"You're great," Louis praises him, "You're really great, George. Dynamite."

It's moments like this when Harry wishes he'd at least picked a cover name that was closer to his own. Jerry, or Larry. Maybe Barry, though he doesn't think Barry suits him that much. At least then it'd be easier to pretend.

It hurts more, being George.

He digs his nails a little into Louis' arm, because he wants it to sting for a moment, wants Louis to feel that tiny pinprick of pain. "More?" he requests, his hair gone in his face, a sweaty mass of curls. "Please?"

Louis nods. His hair flops forward, tickling Harry's nose, and that breaks the tension.

Harry snorts a laugh, and then Louis carefully pushes in farther, and it collapses in on itself into a gasp.

"It's good, right?" Louis asks, and he sounds slurred, like Harry is a drug.

"It's good," Harry agrees. Actually, right now, it mostly hurts with an edge of good, but it feels like it's building into something that might be all good, or at least more good than hurting.

It's strange to call this good, when he knows – had known – always known, that this was supposed to be bad.

If he were at home right now, he'd be arrested.

"Hey." Louis noses at Harry's cheek again. "Where'd you go?"

Harry gives Louis his best smile. "I'm right here." He's actually proud of how steady his voice is, when inside his head he's just had an explosion take place.

If he were at home, back in Iowa, he'd be arrested for what they're doing now. The laws are being repealed all the time nowadays and he knows they've already gone in New Hampshire, but they're not – they're not, in Iowa. It's still illegal there, sodomy. He'd be breaking the law for this.

He'd be breaking the law for Louis. And he says so, muffled into Louis' shoulder as his cock presses into him, thick and hot and so very present.

Louis is silent for a long moment afterward, his hipbones cradled in Harry's. And then he kisses the side of Harry's head, lingering and gentle. "Well. Some laws are meant to be broken, eh?"

Harry hopes that's true. He'd break an awful lot of them for Louis, and already has broken a few. He's not authorized to do just any old illegal thing while he's undercover, and yet he's done pretty much exactly that.

He can't think about that now, about how if he were smart and good, he'd pull himself off the assignment already. He'd leave and Louis would just have to wonder what happened to the boy he knew as George.

And he'd never be able to see Louis again.

He's never wanted to see one of his targets after the sting, before.

But he's also never had one like this, naked in his arms.

Louis kisses his temple, soft and sweet like most of the other things he does. "We can stop, if you want to," he offers, though it sounds like it might pain him. "I told you, if it's too much, we can stop."

Harry tightens his arms around Louis' shoulders, trying to haul him even closer, fold him completely inside his skin. "No, please, I–please don't stop."

"I won't, I won't, if you don't want me to." Louis pushes Harry's hair back off his forehead. "Staying right here. Promise."

Harry slides his legs up around Louis' waist, pulling him in the rest of the way, keeping him close close closer. "Good. Want this, want – the way it feels to finally have you in me, I want to keep this."

He can feel the shudder that rolls through Louis' body then, and he can see the way his Adam's apple bobs. "Okay," Louis says, one arm braced beside them. "Okay, yeah."

Harry isn't quite hard anymore, but Louis licks his free hand, one flash of pink tongue, and wraps it lightly around Harry's dick, stroking with smooth, sure purpose.

It's not enough to rocket him back to a hundred percent, but it does make him feel tingly, nice, full and safe. This is probably already the best sex he's ever had and nothing's even happened yet.

He closes his eyes and lets his head tip back to rest against the floor of the truckbed, his neck long and exposed to Louis. It's vulnerable. It's stupid, against all his training.

But Louis' mouth feels so good when he sucks over the jut of Harry's Adam's apple.

Louis doesn't go full steam ahead; rather, he moves in slow, deliberately smooth movements, always kissing Harry's neck or his birds or sneaking in a bite to the line of his jaw.

It feels – strange, mostly, the ebb and push of Louis moving inside him.

And then Louis shifts his weight to rest entirely on one arm, the other hand curling again around Harry's cock to stroke it along with the rhythm he's building.

Harry exhales with a little _ooh!_ that makes Louis huff a breathless laugh.

"Is that nice?" Louis does a lot of that, little checkups to make sure Harry's still all right. It's dreadfully sweet as much as it is progressively more irritating.

"Yeah, just – feels different," Harry says. "It's, erm. Different. Groovy! Just different."

"Is it different, by any chance?" Louis sounds amused, and he pokes one of Harry's nipples with a damp fingertip.

"Shut up," Harry mutters gruffly.

"Okay," agrees Louis affably, before he shoves back in with more force than he'd been using before. Not enough that it hurts again, but enough that Harry can feel it, deeper, a burn where there had been a spark.

He shifts his hips to get a better grip around Louis' waist – the truckbed is slippery, and they keep jostling around – and that shifts the movement, too, Harry bucking up into Louis' next thrust.

Louis grunts, adjusting his angle, and then slides home again, prodding something that releases a shower of stars behind Harry's eyelids.

The back of his head thuds against the steel of the truck bed. "Oh, god, Louis."

"I answer to both names," replies Louis with a snicker, leaning over Harry to get the same angle on his next thrust.

A few months ago, that would have turned Harry's stomach.

Now, he doesn't even flinch. He just grinds up against Louis as well as he can in this position and doesn't wonder what his father would think of him.

Or Liam.

Though, in most ways that count, those two are the same thing.

Louis' lips brush Harry's ear as he murmurs, "You feel so good, I've wanted to do this since the moment I saw you wandering my grounds in that damn jacket."

"Don't believe you," says Harry in between breaths. "I looked like a mess in that jacket."

"S'why I wanted to strip it off you," Louis growls softly. "And just keep going."

"Why didn't you?" Harry slides a hand behind the back of Louis' neck and does his level best to encourage him to keep going.

Louis lets go of Harry's cock to brace both hands against the truck for leverage, and Harry whimpers.

The next thrust Louis gives him feels like he's doing Harry right into the center of the earth, like he's gone deeper than anybody's ever gone into anybody else.

Harry thrashes a little his back arching as his blunt, broken nails rake down Louis' back.

Louis hisses and pays him back for it, his hips bashing into Harry's so hard there might be bruises tomorrow, and Harry doesn't even mind, he just wants Louis to do it again and again.

The sex that Harry'd always had before coming here was polite and careful and formal. With Jesy and Lou and the other girls at the farmhouse, it was enthusiastic but sloppy, lazy and giggly and full of tangled limbs.

This is more than that, more than sex. This is what Harry imagines it feels like when you've gone into space, rocketing up through the atmosphere and leaving everything you knew behind.

He's going to have evidence clear on his body tomorrow.

It doesn't make him want it less. Actually, he's sort of looking forward to saucy looks from Jesy and Niall, discreet thumbs up from Perrie.

He isn't even going to be able to sit.

Sitting is overrated.

Louis' breathing is loud, hot puffs over Harry's ear. The bed of the truck is rocking.

"'Cause I wanted it to be this fucking good," Louis finally answers, and his teeth scrape over Harry's earlobe, "When I finally got you to want me back."

Harry could say that he's wanted Louis far longer than he should have. He could say that it was always going to be this fucking good. He could say a lot of things, but what he says instead is, "Yeah. Yeah."

"I want to take you apart, George," Louis murmurs. "Let me get every piece."

He already has it. He already has all of it, every piece of Harry that matters.

"You – yeah," he mutters. Because what Louis doesn't have, he can never know exists.

After that, there's just the sounds of their combined heavy breathing, and every so often, Louis will mutter something into Harry's hair.

The way it feels, the intensity of it the almost-hurt and the just-too-good – Harry can't stop leaving his own evidence all over Louis, in scratches and bites and grabby holds onto everywhere Louis' trim body has softness.

It's good that Louis doesn't mind. Instead of admonishing Harry, he encourages him, in quiet pleased noises and inhaled hisses of breath.

Louis bites at Harry's collarbone, sucking a dark purple bruise into the heart of one bird. "You close?"

"Uh-huh." Harry feels as though he can only communicate in half-sounds and almost-words. "Y-eh."

"Good," Louis half-laughs, "Because I really can't hold on any longer."

"Yeah." Harry ducks up as far as he can to kiss Louis' neck, and bites him just enough to make him feel it. He thinks Louis has left so many marks on him, and Harry really hasn't left many in return.

"Can I come inside?"

“Sure," says Harry without really thinking about it. Without giving himself time to think about it.

"You're wild," Louis mutters appreciatively, and he pushes in deep.

It's an odd feeling. Even though he just consented to it, Harry's still startled by the sudden feeling of hot-wet-odd inside him.

He has to hide his face in Louis neck, breathing in the sweat-fresh smell of him, hiding away from the world outside of their joined bodies.

Louis' hand comes sneaking between them, tentative fingertips light against Harry's erection.

"Can I finish you off?"

"Yeah," sighs Harry. He's so ready to be finished off. "Yeah. Please," he adds. Louis does like when he's polite.

Louis looks almost relieved to get to put his mouth over Harry's cock again, eyes fluttering shut as he sucks.

It's that more than anything that gets Harry over that edge: the look on Louis' face. Eyelashes brushing the tops of his hollowed cheeks, his red mouth smiling even as full as it is.

He honestly likes it. He honestly likes doing this.

And he doesn't lean over and spit it out, either. He swallows, holding Harry where he is until he's finished.

He brushes a kiss over Harry's stomach, nibbling into his bellybutton just to make him giggle and squirm, ticklish.

He's sweet after the sex, too. Still tactile and warm. And Louis.

That's what Harry likes best about him. That he's Louis.

"Come up here," he asks shyly, running his fingers through Louis' hair.

Louis doesn't take his time. He scrambles up, one arm wrapping around Harry's chest, his head tucked into Harry's armpit. He sighs happily, wriggling even closer, as close as he can. Harry can practically feel his heartbeat.

"That was aces," he says, and kisses Harry's nose. "You feel okay?"

Mostly, he feels sweaty. Hot and cold all at once. And, yes, okay. "Yeah," he answers. "I'm just fine. How about you?"

"Better'n I have in years," Louis says, and his eyes are quiet and serious.

It's just natural for Harry to kiss him then. At the last second, he remembers where Louis' mouth has been and averts his lips to Louis' cheek.

"What, afraid of your own spunk?"

"I'm not," Harry denies. "Just not so sure I want to taste it."

"You've never tried?" Louis sounds surprised. "Not even just 'cause you're curious?"

Harry swallows. There's no real way to explain how he couldn't, he just couldn't, because it'd be like admitting he wanted to. "Nope."

Louis kisses his cheek. "Well, you taste mostly fine. Just in case you _are_ curious."

"Thanks. I appreciate the compliment." Harry tucks his nose into Louis' hair. He smells sweaty.

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	8. Chapter Eight

The jack-o'lanterns go over gangbusters with the twins, and everyone enjoys the roasted pumpkin seeds. The stringy slop-guts from inside the pumpkins go into one of Perrie's compost heaps to fertilize the crops come spring. Nothing goes to waste here.

Even though he's been here for what feels like forever at this point, almost three months, Harry feels like there's a whole new sheen to this place, brighter and bolder, like he's looking at everything in a different way.

Maybe it's because the world has turned over its leaves overnight and suddenly their little house is in the midst of a forest awash in autumn's fiery orange, everything crisp and so bright it almost hurts Harry's eyes.

"Autumn up here," Niall comments one day. "It's like someone painted a picture and we're living in it."

"It's really pretty." Harry's got a cup of raspberry leaf tea in a mug so hot it's burning his fingers pink, and he blows across the surface in a little ripple to help it cool. Louis' arm wraps around his waist from behind.

"Always is," Louis says, leaning his other elbow on the table in flagrant disregard of basic manners. "There are a few days every year in this part of the country where I wonder how something so beautiful could happen. There are some colors you just can't find anywhere else, other than on the leaves in November."

Niall nods, lifting his own mug, then winces a little. "But the cold coming hurts my bones. I miss being young. Tell the littles to jump in a pile of leaves for me."

"I'm sure they'll be all too happy to whether it's for you or not," says Louis dryly, a smile on his face, "but I'll tell them to do it extra for you, old man."

Niall grins and scratches his chin. "I hope my beard comes in better for the winter. I'll need it to keep my face warm."

Harry laughs. He can't grow a beard either, but he does like Louis'. There are still pink marks on the tops of his thighs to remind him how much he'd liked it two nights ago, in the bed of the pickup truck.

Louis grins sideways at him like he knows just what Harry's thinking. "You've tried to grow that thing in for the winter _every_ winter and it's always patchy like you're a fifteen year old trying to copy his dad. I'd give up, lad."

Niall takes a swig of tea and the blond bristles around his mouth dye fuchsia from the raspberry leaves. "Never."

There's another laugh from Louis at some internal joke, and his hand tightens on Harry's hip. "One of those days I don't feel like doing much," he confides. "Just want to sit out on the porch and look at the world."

Of course, that's when the twins and Lux run outside and hang off of Louis, and Jesy comes bustling out the door with her arms full of laundry to be hung.

"To be expected," Louis sighs, a toddler dangling from one of his arms. "There's always tomorrow, I guess."

"Play, play, play!" Lux chants. "Today!"

"Today?" mimics Louis as he lifts Lux with one arm as if she doesn't weigh more than a breeze. "You want to play today?"

"We want to rake the leaves!" Phoebe-Sunshine says, bouncing on her toes.

"And then make leaf-angels!" Daisy adds.

"Is it possible to make leaf angels?" Harry asks, curious. He's never made one, but the times are much different than they were when he was the twins' age.

"I don't know," says Daisy.

"It never hurts to try," Phoebe-Sunshine lectures.

"That's very true, Sunshine, never forget that," Louis instructs, the back of his hand pressed still to Harry's side, his knuckles a firm pressure. It's reassuring, in a way.

It never does hurt to try, Harry thinks, and his cheeks feel warm and heady with it.

"Does everybody know their tasks for today?" Louis asks, finally moving his hand to stretch his arms above his head in a yawn, rolling his head from side to side.

Lux shrieks as he lifts her, too, and she grabs onto his long hair for balance.

"Ow," Louis says mildly. "Gentle hands, Luxie."

Harry laughs and takes her so that Louis can rub his head. "I don't know my task for the day. Is it to make a leaf angel?"

"Sadly, no," Louis replies. He gives Lux a tickle under her chin. "You're with me."

"Oh, how sad for me," Harry says, and he's surprised at how much like a purr it comes out. It's embarrassing, but no one even looks twice; no one glares at him.

"You must be simply devastated." Louis' knuckles bump Harry's, and though once might be an accident, the second time it's deliberate.

"Devasated," Lux echoes, nodding and patting Harry's cheek.

"Come on, down you get," Louis urges while he takes Lux from Harry to set her down on the ground. "I'm sure you've got very very important business to take care of, Miss Lux."

Lux thinks about this for a long time before nodding. "Very inpordant."

"Off you get." Louis straightens up and raises his eyebrows at Harry. "Shall we, sir?"

Lux trots off, and Harry takes the hand that Louis offers. It's a small thing, simple and ultimately chaste, but Harry's heart starts hammering away in his chest all the same.

Especially when Louis doesn't let go if it as he leads them up the stairs. He goes on holding Harry's hand the whole way to the upstairs room where they've been spending a lot of their time as of late.

Harry keeps waiting for someone to pop out and slug him.

Or his mother to step out of a room and give him a look like she's never been more disappointed, the look that she had when Jonny's father dragged Harry home by the ear and with his nose swollen with broken cartilage and explained that he'd caught Harry and Jonny kissing behind the garage.

They never talked about that. Harry wonders if anything about his life might be different if they had.

He wouldn't have gone to military school, probably. Wouldn't have met Liam and joined the Academy.

It's no use, though, wondering what might be different, because it is what it is. There are things you can change and things you can't, and your past is something that you can't change.

And it leads you to where you are.

Harry is here.

It suddenly makes sense, the hippie-dippie things that Lou and Perrie and Jesy say.

"Lost you for a minute there." Louis is looking at him, when Harry comes out of his thoughts, quiet, studying his expression.

"I'm groovy," Harry assures him. "Just thinking about Lux's inpordant business."

"She does have a lot of that." Louis' face relaxes into a smile. "In fact I think that all the business I've ever seen Lux do is important."

Harry beams. "That's true."

They spend the rest of the day working on the dollhouse as usual.

"I think it's coming along swell," Louis remarks as the sun lowers far enough below the horizon line that the darkness seeps in at the edges of the windows. "It'll be done in no time at this rate."

"Yeah, it's really dynamite," Harry says, and he's actually telling the truth.

"I still haven't quite figured out how we'll make the wood different colors." Louis scratches his head. "Any ideas?"

Another memory from Harry's Iowa childhood surfaces. "When I did the Pine Box Derby, we used onion skins boiled in vinegar to dye the car."

"Onion skins," Louis mumbles. "What color did that tint the wood?"

"Sort of purple," Harry says. "Magenta-ish."

"Magenta-ish could work." Louis grins at him. "Full of good ideas, aren't you?"

Before Harry can work up a pun, Louis leans close enough to ghost his lips over Harry's cheek and murmur, "You've been full of lots of good things of late."

"Beat me to it," Harry says, sort of croaky because all the air just left his lungs at once.

Louis grins. "I'm just clever. And horny."

"You always are, one or the other." Harry laughs, pressing his own mouth to Louis' jaw, below his ear, because the skin there looks rough with just enough stubble to be able to feel it on his lips.

It's an interesting feeling, different from anyone else he's ever kissed. Jonny hadn't had enough facial hair yet to feel rough with stubble.

Louis hums and it vibrates against Harry's mouth, so he does it again, not quite a kiss, just a press of his mouth against skin.

Louis slides his hand between the buttons of Harry's shirt to rest against his belly. "'You still want to?"

"Want to what?" Harry asks, distracted by the feeling of Louis' fingers on his stomach, even when they're not doing anything.

Louis shrugs and looks uncharacteristically bashful. "You know. You hadn't – it wasn't spur of the moment? You and me?"

Oh. Oh, it hadn't occurred to Harry that Louis might think he would do something like that on a whim, without thinking it through. He's not really a spontaneous kind of person. Typically. "It wasn't spur of the moment," he confirms. "I still want to."

Louis' eyes lighten. "Then let's get downstairs. Dinner tonight and then everyone's to bed early, I think."

That could mean any number of things. Either they're sleeping early or decisively not sleeping early, and either way Harry's heart rate increases a little.

Louis hides the dollhouse in the closet again as he always does, and they head down the stairs. It's Zayn's turn to cook, and the spicy soup he's made promises to keep everyone's sinuses clear for the week.

Harry's tongue is a little bit on fire, and he tries to fan it discreetly while everybody else departs, slowly, from the dinner table.

Lux watches Harry curiously from her seat and offers out a spoon of her plain Cream of Wheat.

He declines, even though it would probably help. He can't literally take food from a baby.

"Come on, Luxie," Lou murmurs, lifting her out of her chair. "Georgie doesn't want your dinner."

"Very kind of you to offer, though," Harry makes sure to tell her. "I appreciate it."

She smiles with a messy mouth. "Luvviyou."

Harry's not sure if it's the spice in the soup, but his entire body feels warm and happy. "Luvviyou, Lux."

Lou smiles at them both and doffs a kiss to Lux's fluffy blonde head. "Say good night, Luxie."

"Night-night, Luxie," Lux says. It's evident she's growing up with Louis, the little wiseass.

The fond exasperation on Lou's face says something very similar, and she whisks Lux off to bed with a smile.

Louis chuckles behind Harry. "She's a groovy kid."

"She is," Harry agrees. "Growing up well. Better than she would out there."

It doesn't really feel like bait, is the thing: Lux is a sweet girl, and the twins are so kind to her that it was unnerving at first. Harry remembers Gemma being horrible to him until she became haughty and bossy instead, and they stayed that way until Harry was in college and almost an adult. Gemma had a child of her own by the time they could be friends.

He's pretty sure Liam and his sisters were the same. Siblings are children with each other far past the time they're children to the rest of the world, but it seems that here, that doesn't really matter.

"Thank you." Louis' voice is genuinely grateful. "I really try."

"I know that you do. You're good with them." Harry leans back a little, and Louis' hand is warm when it rests on the back of his neck.

"I'll try to be good to you, too," Louis murmurs. It's a promise, but it doesn't sound like he's feeding lines, either. If he were, he wouldn't only _try_.

Harry closes his eyes and inhales, exhales. Opening them, he turns in his chair until he can see Louis straight-on. "Will you?" he asks seriously. It's as sincere a question as he dares ask.

If he's Louis', then there is no deeper undercover he can be; he'll be at the heart of everything, get intel on him that no one else has. No one else would know how Louis tastes, or how he feels. And maybe that isn't useful, but it's something Harry can have.

Louis' hand squeezes his shoulder, and it feels like a brand and like a promise at the same time. "I will."

Harry swallows and takes Louis' hand again, lets himself be led to the sleeping room.

He's not sure what Louis is expecting from him tonight. Will he still sit off to the side, watching as Harry fucks Jesy or Lou or whomever? Or will he want Harry to stay with him?

It's much darker now, in November, than it used to be, but still everyone's eyes find them as soon as Louis enters the room. Everyone can see that their hands are laced together.

There's a pause in the buzzing energy of the room before everybody goes back to what they were doing, and Harry has a renewed sense of attention on him even when there are no longer any eyes watching.

Louis doesn't sit where he usually does, but instead he finds a place on the floor just in front of his usual chair and tugs Harry down beside him, a smile playing on his lips.

Harry supposes this is his seat now. He's fine with that, even if it means just sitting here presiding over the sex of everybody else, as Louis does.

But Louis spreads his hands over Harry's waist and draws him in close.

"Hi," he says, low and breathy, and Harry's already sweating. "Come here."

"I'm here," Harry says. His lips are dry, and he wets them with his tongue all too consciously.

Louis laughs, and it's just as quiet as his prior words were. "Closer, I mean."

The only way to be closer is to straddle Louis' lap, so Harry does, settling himself while trying to hold up his weight. "I'm too heavy."

"You're joking, right?" Louis laughs again, and presses his mouth between Harry's collarbones. "You're a feather."

Harry would harrumph, but the warmth of Louis' mouth against his skin makes him shiver instead.

Louis' fingers are playing at the hem of Harry's shirt, his mouth smiling; Harry can feel it. He can also feel eyes on them, but he's trying not to think too much about that.

"What do you want to do tonight, little feather?"

Harry'd just as well stay like this, close to Louis but not so close that he burns himself on the sun.

"I don't know," he murmurs, truthfully. "I've never – other than the other night, I mean... I don't know – "

"I know." Louis hushes him. "And I showed you then, didn't I? I can show you now."

Harry ducks his head to hide his face beneath his hair. "In front of everyone?"

Louis slips a finger beneath Harry's chin to tilt his face up. "Nobody is looking," he murmurs. "You don't need to be embarrassed."

"I'm not embarrassed," Harry protests. He isn't embarrassed, not to be seen with Louis. Just to be seen like this, seen as wanton as he was in the back of the pickup truck. Spread open, needy. Vulnerable.

Louis kisses him, gently, not leading as Harry might expect it to be. "We can just do this, if you want," he suggests. "I only want you, it doesn't matter how."

"We can start here," Harry compromises. "It's a good place to start."

"It is a good place to start." Louis has his hands on Harry's hips, holding him where he is, as he noses up against the underside of his jaw.

They kiss so long that the residual heat from the spices wears off their tongues and they begin instead to just taste like each other, like skin and spit and nature.

Harry doesn't notice that his hips are rocking down against Louis' until Louis' hand is pressed against his lower back, urging him forward.

The way they shift together, Harry can feel the shape of Louis under him even through two pairs of jeans.

They're the only people in the room still clothed, but then, Louis always is.

Harry doesn't know how he can stand it. Surrounded by everyone, so much body heat, his shirt is sticking uncomfortably and it's only a t-shirt. He can't imagine how hot Louis must be in his long sleeves.

Louis' teeth tug at the collar of Harry's shirt. "Take this off?"

He's barely finished the question before Harry's tugging it over his head, sighing happily as the air in the room hits his sweaty back. It's still warm, but he feels less... confined.

The way Louis looks at Harry is like a pilgrim in the desert seeing water. "You are so gorgeous, George."

Harry's mouth curls in a smile he wishes it wouldn't, and he ducks his head. "So are you."

Louis' eyes crinkle at the corners. "Thanks, love."

The room seems to pause again as Louis begins to unbutton his own shirt.

It's like Harry's in a vaccuum, the lack of sound a sound in itself. He must be hallucinating because Louis has never so much as removed a sock before in this room, but now his skin is being revealed like he's done it a million times.

The faint smattering of hair across his chest, the curl of his black tattoos, the puckered dimple scars of bullet holes. He's been saving them for Harry.

He doesn't look away from Harry, either, as he does it; doesn't look to meet the eyes of any of the people watching them now. Because there _are_ people watching them now. Harry can feel their eyes. They were watching before, too, but it was different, a sort of lazy curiosity. This is tinged with reverence.

"Breathe, love." Louis nudges Harry's nose with his own, a silent laugh bubbling under his words. "I don't want you to faint on me."

"It's a lot," Harry mumbles nonsensically, touching his lips to Louis' with care.

The warmth of Louis' skin when Harry spreads his hands across the firm plain of his chest is hotter than a human should be, hotter than anything. His heart is beating under Harry's palm.

"What would you like me to do?" asks Harry, ready to be instructed. It's easier to ask for an answer than it is to answer when you're asked, he thinks.

Louis' shirt slumps onto the floor, and Louis touches Harry with the same sort of wonderment. "I'm here for you. Whatever you want, I can be that."

"I just want to touch you," Harry replies, and it strikes him as one of the more honest things he's ever said. He just wants to touch Louis, to feel his skin and his bones and the way his muscles shift when he moves. He wants to touch Louis' arms and stomach and his hair and his legs. He wants to touch Louis in every place, in every way.

Louis kisses Harry's forehead again, just between his eyes. "Please."

In some ways it seems selfish for Harry to want so much, but he lifts his hands to set them on Louis' shoulders anyway. They're beautifully formed and solid from all of the lifting that he does. There are so many small tattoos that it will take Harry an age to learn them all. Across Louis' collarbones, script sagely says, _it is what it is_.

Harry wonders what inspired that one. He wonders what inspires a lot of Louis.

What could Louis possibly see in him – in 'George'? What's inspired him to _this_?

There's no way for him to find out, and even if there was, Harry's not sure he'd like the answer.

Louis brushes his hand over the huge butterfly that was all that could conceivably cover a tattoo Harry'd gotten to fit in with the Chicago Outfit.

In a way, Louis probably has just as many questions about Harry. About _George_ , rather.

Harry touches his lips to Louis' temple, his hands sliding from Louis' shoulders down over his chest and feeling the dips of his ribs, delicate bones underneath deceitfully thin skin.

If he had to, Harry knows how to break a man's ribs in just the right way to make them puncture his lungs. It's not a skill that he wants, but it's one he's needed in the past. He doesn't know why he's thinking of it now, why he's forever being dragged back to reality just when he's prepared to pretend it doesn't exist, but he wishes it would happen at a more opportune time.

The heel of Louis' hand pressing over the hot bulge in the front of Harry's jeans is certainly a way to be reminded where he really is, what he's doing right now.

The way their mouths connect now is more intent, with purpose behind it. Leading.

The button at the front of Harry's jeans pops open.

"Is this alright?"

"Yes," Harry sighs, leaning back to make it easier for Louis to use his hands. "More than."

Louis' smile is lazy, sloppy, red with the pressure of having kissed and kissed.

His fingers, though, are nimble as ever, twitching the zipper of Harry's jeans down and pushing inside them, his palm easily finding what it's searching for.

Really, if Harry'd actually been taught the easiest way to take a man apart, it'd be this. The way Louis is touching but not _quite_ enough – that's its own torture.

"I like making you feel good," Louis says, soft, just for them to hear. "You make the loveliest sounds; you wear your heart on your sleeve, did you know?"

It should send off alarm bells, but it doesn't. Harry won't say anything about his real life when they're like this, because this has no equal in his reality. This is something that exists only here.

Louis' hand keeps up with its torturous slow rubbing, only using his palm and never quite the right pressure.

"You said you wanted to touch me," Louis murmurs. "Do you still want to?"

"I always want to," Harry says with the same unnerving sincerity that made him reply the first time.

Louis shifts Harry back enough that his jeans can be unbuttoned, too, and the waistband slipped down his hips. But they aren't, yet. "Show me."

Harry's never going to be as coordinated as Louis, no matter how well trained he is, but he knows how to touch and be touched, knows that Louis means it when he wants Harry to show him what he means by the word 'touch'.

He opens Louis' jeans like a present on Christmas morning.

When he slides his own hand into them, Louis makes a muffled groaning sound. It sparks accomplishment in Harry's chest.

"That's it," Louis whispers. "Just like for yourself, but turn your wrist – that way."

Harry follows Louis' instructions, moving his hand in the suggested direction. From the throaty purr Louis releases, he's doing all right.

After a minute's awkward fumbling, Louis takes his hand away. "Scoot up a second, let's take these pants off. I want to see all of you."

Harry barely hesitates. Everybody else has faded into the background and all that matters, all he's paying attention to is Louis and touching Louis and Louis touching him.

When he stands to shake his jeans free from his left foot, Louis kneels up on the balls of his feet to kiss Harry's thigh, high up over a scar left not by a gun or a knife or a bomb, but just his overzealous cat as a child.

It makes Harry shiver all the way through to his bones.

Louis, naked, is stunning. Harry feels hot like he shouldn't be looking – definitely shouldn't be thinking the way he is – but he can't _not_.

Louis doesn't mind, anyway, if the way he tilts his chin up just a bit to preen is any indication. He grasps Harry's hand to tug him back down, both of them on their knees. Mirror images.

Louis' fingers trail down Harry's arm, lace through Harry's own fingers, and then lift, helping Harry settle a loose fist around Louis' cock again.

"Little bit tighter," Louis says, and Harry tightens his grip just a little more than he'd usually like himself. Louis hums. "Perfect, George."

Louis' cock is smaller than his own but thicker and straighter. It feels different in Harry's hand, the pulse shouting against his palm where his own only ever whispers.

"Slow," Louis urges. He lets go of Harry's hand but continues to watch it as it moves on him, his hips jerking in quick little starts and stops.

The tip of Louis' cock gets shiny and wet as Harry keeps moving, and it's... amazing. Harry feels like he's on fire. The best part of sex has always just been feeling good at it, since at least it was a badge of honor to make someone else happy with him, but to make _Louis_ happy, to make sex feel like _this_?

It's better than sex, more than sex, it's like being lit on fire from within, like being a star ready to explode.

"D'you like it?" Harry presses. "It's good?"

"It's amazing." Louis inhales and his exhale is shaky. "It's perfect, you're perfect."

He wraps his own hand around Harry's cock and Harry groans, low and broken. He drops his forehead onto Louis' shoulder and stares down at where they're touching each other.

The room is dark as always but what little light there is means that Harry can see their movements, the shiny heads of their pricks pushing up into fists. He feels more naked than he's ever been.

"Look at – that," he breathes. "That's – "

"Isn't it?" Louis agrees. He sounds exhilarated, like he's been sprinting. He tightens his own grip and Harry whines, embarrassingly, a desperate sound choked from his chest.

"It was nice watching you enjoy yourself before," Louis murmurs, "But there's nothing like a _man_ , is there?"

However he means it, it's true. There's nothing quite like a man – and Harry had enjoyed being with Jesy, and Lou, but there's a spark with Louis that he hasn't felt before.

He feels powerful in a way that he didn't with them.

With anyone before, ever.

Even though Louis is giving him quiet suggestions every now and then, it's not in the same as he instructs the others, telling them what to do. He's telling Harry how to have power over him. He's giving Harry weapons, really, even if Harry wouldn't know how to use them.

But god, Louis does. He plays Harry's body like it's a fiddle and Louis is Nero and around them, Rome could be burning and neither would notice.

It builds and builds and builds, until Harry's heart is caught in his throat and he can't speak to Louis with anything other than his eyes and his body.

When he comes, Louis kisses him.

It's messy, relentless, waves of orgasm like Harry hadn't felt before he'd felt them with Louis, and he does his best to keep his grip on Louis' cock and continue to move his hand.

When Louis licks his hand after, Harry feels dizzy enough that he wonders whether he might come again, even though he knows he can't.

His cock gives a feeble jerk anyway. It does try its best.

Louis offers Harry a finger. "D'you wanna try?"

It's an innocent question, but for the shine in Louis' eyes, the gleam there hopeful. Harry doesn't want to try, not really. It seems seedy, uncouth. Moreso than what he's already done, even.

Harry goes red and shakes his head, and Louis just shrugs, undeterred. He kisses Harry's cheek high on the bone, and then licks more of Harry's wet off his fingers. "More for me."

He doesn't push. Harry is so used to everybody pushing, even himself, so much so that it's dizzying to experience the opposite.

He adds a second hand to where he's still working over Louis' cock.

It's beautiful, watching Louis fall open under his hands. It goes straight to Harry's head, leaving him feeling a bit like he'd felt when he's drunk on clear moonshine again.

Louis moans low and quiet, but it still commands the attention of everyone around them.

Everything about Louis commands everyone around them, but this time the attention isn't as jarring when Harry's relaxed and loose-limbed from orgasm.

His hands are covered in Louis' come, and he doesn't want to lick it away like Louis did his. He just... he can't.

He reaches for the first article of clothing he can find (which happens to be his own shirt) and wipes off his hands, his head low, avoiding Louis' eyes.

When he does look up, Louis' blue eyes are glowing. He wraps his arms around Harry's waist and draws him close. "You're amazing."

Harry kisses Louis' neck because it's right there and his skin feels nice against Harry's mouth. He doesn't feel very amazing, but then, he never does once he comes down from the peak of pleasure. Who could? After coming, sex is just sweaty bodies stuck too close.

And the soft presence of Louis' cock pressed up against Harry's thigh, an itchy tangle of hair there, too.

Not the worst feeling. Just unpleasant after so much pleasantness beforehand.

Louis' hands are cool and gentle, though, as he smooths Harry's sweaty hair away from his face.

Everybody else is settling down as well, yawns and one or two snores amongst the general murmur in the room. It's quiet. Tired.

Louis kisses Harry's shoulder, then reaches down and shrugs back into his own shirt. He buttons it back up his chest.

He must be roasting, but Harry doesn't ask questions. He's comfortable enough as he is.

Is he supposed to go sleep in the pile with everyone else? Louis never sleeps in here.

But then again, he's never taken his clothes off before, either.

"Tired, aren't you?" Louis asks, gentle and kind. He kisses Harry's forehead even though his hair's in the way now, sweaty and gross. "You should get some sleep."

"Aren't you?" Harry yawns despite himself. "Where _do_ you sleep?"

"Oh, I'm not tired yet," Louis laughs gently. "I'm going to fix another mug of that raspberry tea. It's too sweet, but I'll take what I can get."

He didn't actually answer Harry's question, but it's useless to ask again if he's dodging it.

Still, something jostles a little in Harry's ribs that Louis is just leaving him now.

His arms wind around Harry's waist in a hug and he kisses Harry's jaw and sighs happily into his hair but it doesn't change that he's leaving.

He rubs Harry's back. "Go on, find a friend. You'll get cold."

Harry wants to say that he wouldn't get cold if Louis was with him. He wants to say that he doesn't need a _friend_ as long as Louis is there.

But in the end, he'll do what Louis says, and find Jesy or Lou or, in a pinch, Perrie.

Louis kisses Harry's lips. "I'll see you in the morning, love."

And with that, he's gone.

Harry takes a moment to gather himself, pull on his underwear at least even if the rest of his clothes aren't necessary. He needs to organize his thoughts, but he's so tired now, bone-weary and exhausted.

Why doesn't Louis want to sleep in here, even with Harry?

And where is he sleeping, anyway, that's so much better?

Harry crawls over to where Lou and Tom are sprawled on the floor, one of Tom's arms curled loosely over Lou's waist.

When he presses against Lou's back, she mumbles something, and shuffles around to envelope him in a hug.

"You're special," she whispers.

Harry makes a noncommittal noise and curls his hand between them, careful not to disturb Tom's arm where it's resting.

Harry can just faintly hear Louis clattering in the kitchen.

In here, though, it's just quiet enough to hear the wind outside, and Harry listens to that in an attempt to keep himself from wondering anything at all.

The next day, they have to start getting to work on the dye for the wood, because some of it will need to stain for a long time before it’s the right color. With the drying time added on, it could be nearly December by the time they can work with the wood again.

"So," says Harry, casting a critical eye around the kitchen. There are several pots merrily bubbling away on the stove, and the mixture of smells in the air is interesting, to say the least. He folds his arms and cuts his gaze to Louis, sitting on the counter and swinging his legs against the cupboards like a child. "What's next? Anything else to boil?"

"Well, I've been fishing for information," Louis says. "And I've caught quite a big lot. I reckon I make a good interrogator. I'm sneaky, see. They don't even know they're being watched."

That buzzes in the back of Harry's brain for a moment before he can manage a smile, leaning his hip against the countertop beside Louis'. "Is that so?"

Louis nods, his heel tapping against Harry's thigh. "Yeah. And I learned that one of our subjects likes turquoise and purple and stripes. But the other likes pink and orange polka dots and butterflies."

"I see." Harry glances toward the pots to make sure nothing is bubbling over. "Are you thinking of using the blackberries for the pink?"

"We can give that a try," Louis says. "But everyone likes them so much. Maybe beets. I just can't learn to like beets."

"Do we have beets?" asks Harry curiously. "I haven't seen hide nor hair of a beet since I've been here. Canned?"

"D'you think canned would work?" Louis asks. "I know we have those; Jade wouldn't let me roll them down the big hill."

"They could work. I don't see why they wouldn't. And they're packed in their own juice, aren't they? That could come in handy." Harry frowns. "Stain your hands as well."

"Everything worth doing is a bit messy," Louis declares. He hops down from the counter and bounces onto tiptoe to kiss Harry's lips.

"Seems to be your life motto." Harry smiles, leans into Louis and gives him a nuzzle at his hairline.

Louis murmurs. His fingers are cold when they slip beneath Harry's sweater, and Harry squeaks, jumping away.

"No funny business," he chastises. "There's things boiling. Someone'll get hurt."

"Oh, it's just boiling vinegar." Louis waves a dismissive hand. "Terrible pain, fumes, whatever."

"And what color'll that one turn the wood?" Harry asks, tucking one hand down along Louis' back to feel the warmth of him through his shirt.

"Whatever we put in it," Louis says. "Were you not listening to me at all this morning?"

"No," Harry says honestly. "I was too busy looking at you."

Louis lifts his chin, trying to look like he's not flattered, but Harry can see the telltale pleased gleam in his eye. It's odd to think that used to put him off. "Awful, Georgie, just awful. You're meant to be my trusty sidekick."

Harry pops his cheek as he taps Louis' side lightly with the arch of one foot. "There you go."

Louis' expression of exasperated fondness is something that never gets old. "Don't believe you're real sometimes," he mutters, turning away but curling his hand around Harry's wrist and pressing two fingertips against his pulse.

It's a gesture that unnerves Harry–Louis reminding himself, it seems, that Harry is alive.

"How long should we leave it to boil, do you think?" Harry asks. He shuffles closer to Louis as a reminder: he's here, he's real, he's close.

"Until it's a nice color, I guess." Louis pecks Harry's cheek and promptly turns on his heel. "To the canned evil! I mean, beets! And the onion skins. Did we still have those copper pipe fittings, from the cellar?"

"We do," Harry confirms. "Last I checked, anyway. Are we boiling them? That doesn't seem safe."

"No, I just want to have everything together." Louis taps the side of his nose. "Being clever and organized and the like."

"Right, right. I'll go get those, then?" Harry's mouth seems unable to keep from turning up at the corners. Something about Louis inspires that in him.

Louis nods and pats Harry's cheek. "Good man."

The ground outside squishes beneath Harry's feet, all half-iced mud from the days of wet drizzle and nightly frost.

He's been here since it was sunny and clear skies, thinking he'd be out in a month. He's been here three now.

The forest around their land is resplendent with orange and red, everything that the leaf-peepers would pay to see. But Harry gets it free.

The jar of copper pipe fragments soaking in vinegar is the most brilliantly beautiful blue.

"Wow," he mutters, reaching to tuck it under one armpit. It's cold from being down here in the rapidly cooling climate, and he flinches from the feel of it through his shirt before he plods back up the stairs.

The wind turns bitter when it blows his long hair across his face on the way back. Jade has been in a tizzy counting cans and jars for the upcoming winter, and Harry can understand why: without electricity, and with Lux and the twins and Perrie to take care of, the season will be hard. The weather was unforgiving in the summer, but at least water was easy to come by.

He wonders if they'll have to start melting ice for water. Quaint. And they'll have to, anyway, if the well freezes over.

After a while, the porch comes back into view. Jesy is wrapped in ponchos, hair to her waist, hanging washing on the line.

"Hiii," Harry greets with a smile. It's odd how it's not at all uncomfortable that he knows what having sex with her is like, and yet they're still friends, and they still have conversations, and nothing's been awkward.

She even seems happy to see him with Louis. Harry isn't sure he could be that person if the situation had been reversed.

"Pretty." She nods at the pennies tucked under his arm, the bright blue of them peeking out from his sleeve. "Did you need anything washed? Today's the last day until Sunday."

Harry shakes his head. "I think I'm alright. Can you keep the little ones out of the kitchen and Louis' workshop for a while?"

She narrows her eyes in curiosity, but shrugs. "I guess so. I'll enlist the others, too."

Harry kisses her cheek. "Thanks, doll."

"Yeah, yeah." She swats his arm, and he doesn't think the color in her cheeks is all from the brisk wind.

The kitchen smells terrible when Harry opens the door. He can see why Jesy would choose to do laundry even in this bitter wind.

"Ewie!" Lux trots past Harry with her hands over her nose. "Louis bad cook!"

"Isn't he awful?" Harry snickers, and makes sure she's not going to trip going up the stairs.

Lux nods, her little face scrunched up, and lets Harry start her up the stairs, away from the vinegar pickling smell.

"Why don't you find your mother, see what she's doing?" he suggests gently. "Stay out of the kitchen for a while. That smell's no good for small noses."

Lux nods in agreement and starts hiking up the stairs. That should keep her busy for a while, anyway.

"They're really pretty," he announces upon his return to the kitchen, offering the jar to Louis. "Look, it's so bright."

Louis has a clothespin, no doubt snatched from Jesy on her way outside, pinching his nose shut. "Yeah, they are." He sounds like Mickey Mouse. "I'm glad they turned out. I'm not sure I'm boiling things right."

"It doesn't matter if it's done right as long as the results work out," Harry reasons. "I think if it turns the wood the color it's supposed to, that's done right."

Louis might pull a face. It's hard to tell with the clothespin. "I guess so. We're probably nearly done. I'm not sure how dark we're looking for the dyes to get."

"Pastels are probably best for little girls," Harry says thoughtfully. "But since the wood is... wood-colored, and not white, maybe the pigment needs to be darker."

"We'll figure it out," Louis says, waving a hand. "They'll be happy with whatever we give them."

"That's true," Harry admits, leaning back against the counter again. "How much longer, do you think?"

Louis shrugs, stepping up close, right into Harry's space. He tucks one hand under Harry's shirt hem, warm fingers crowded up against Harry's belly. "Ten minutes, and you can check?"

"Oh," says Harry. Louis' voice has done the low smooth silky thing and sometimes it shorts out Harry's brain. "What are we going to find to do for ten whole minutes?"

Louis' fingers walk across Harry's stomach. "Dunno. We're in the kitchen. But I do have some ideas."

"I'm open to suggestions." Everything's hot. Louis' hands are hot, the room is hot, the air in Harry's lungs is hot.

Louis tilts his head, blue eyes bright. Even with the clothespin on his nose, he manages to look rakish and bold. That may be because his fingers have crept down below Harry's belt-buckle, though. "Well, I can't do much with this fashion accessory on my face, but you could do a little something, don't you think?"

"I... could," Harry agrees. Really, he's not sure he could. He _could_ ; he's capable of it, but still, he's not as confident with this sort of thing as Louis is. He doubts he ever will be.

Louis smiles, one eyebrow raising. 

Harry goes a little pink and looks down, admiring Louis' slim wrist. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well," says Louis, in that way he does, and Harry just knows that whatever he's about to say is going to make him blush or, potentially, just blow up. "I think that it's a shame that your mouth isn't put to as much use as it could be, when it's such a good mouth."

It – does he mean – ?

Harry goes darker red than the beets boiling away on the stove.

This apparently surprises Louis, whose eyebrows slowly slide up toward his hairline. "Just a suggestion," he says, clearly bemused.

"I don't – that isn't," Harry splutters. "I just haven't, ever, is – basically, I..."

"You haven't?" Louis's eyebrows go back to where they normally are. "I could've sworn – really? Ever?"

Harry shakes his head, then has to swipe his bangs out of his eyes like he's a sheepdog. "When would I have? I haven't with you, so..."

"I don't know. I guess I didn't think about it much." Louis shrugs, but it's careful, calculated. Harry can tell the difference by now. "You don't have to, then."

Harry bites his lip. Even with the acrid odor permeating the kitchen from all of the vinegar boiling on the stove, he can smell Louis, warm and earthy and dizzying. Louis still hasn't stopped his light-fingered teasing just inside the front of Harry's pants.

"Or," says Louis, and there's the deliberation Harry was waiting for, "I could teach you how. It's not hard, once you get the hang of it. And you might like it."

Like it? That was something he used to get threatened with at the military academy. And the FBI academy, although he probably shouldn't talk about that. Then again, so was what he and Louis already do.

Maybe it's not as bad a thing as it's made out to be. Sort of like Louis himself, Harry supposes.

"I don't know," Harry mutters. "We only have a few minutes now, anyway."

"So we have," Louis accepts, and he doesn't jerk away, but he does take his fingers off of Harry's skin, and Harry doesn't like that at all.

He frowns, brow furrowing, as he watches Louis head to the stove and bat fumes away, coughing, before sticking a lid on the pots and taking them away from the heat.

"What's with the face?" Louis asks, without even looking over his shoulder at Harry. He has a way of just knowing.

"I don't want you to be disappointed with me," Harry says, surprising himself with his candor.

Now Louis looks, the pot set down and his hands moving to his hips. "I'm not disappointed with you at all," he says, tilting his head. He's frowning now, too. "Not even a little."

Harry scratches the back of his neck. It's really warm in the kitchen with all of the burners on, even if he'll be cold again as soon as they move into Louis' workshop.

"Stop, with the face," Louis commands. Harry, like everybody else, has learned that making Louis happy is a great way to be happy yourself – but he doesn't know what face he's supposed to stop.

He widens his eyes quite a bit to see whether that helps.

"Okay, now you just look terrifying." Louis makes his way back over to Harry, and slips one of his hands back behind Harry's back. "I'm not disappointed with you. I promise."

Harry lets Louis lean up and kiss his lips softly. "It's not that I'm scared," he says with false bravado. "I just don't know how it could be likable."

"Well, has it ever been done to you?" Louis tucks some of Harry's hair behind his ear. "Or have I been operating under completely wrong assumptions?"

"I mean, when you did it," Harry says. "And yeah, before that, yeah. I wasn't – I'd had sex before I got here, you know. It was just all with women."

"It's not all that different, having sex with men." Louis isn't frowning anymore, but he's not smiling, either. "I like blowing you. It's fun."

Harry can't help wrinkling his nose. Part of it is the vinegar smell, but part of it is, "But what about gagging? And the – the, you know, the... stuff?"

Louis laughs at him. "Go slow, that helps with the gagging. And if you eat a lot of fruit, it tastes better. We eat a _lot_ of fruit."

"I guess," Harry says. He's still dubious. He's touched Louis' cock enough at this point to know that it's bigger than anything Harry ever puts into his mouth without the intention to – "What about biting? By accident?"

"Tuck your lips over your teeth." Louis opens his mouth and it looks like he's taken his dentures out. "Li'e tha'," he slurs.

Harry can't help dropping his head back in laughter. Between the clothespin and the lack of teeth, this Louis is probably the least sexy thing Harry's ever seen.

"Hard to breathe that way," Louis grumbles, untucking his lips. "I don't recommend it."

Harry grins, catching Louis by the beltloops before he can escape. "You're groovy, you know that?"

"Course." Louis snorts, but he tucks himself back into Harry's side to allow himself a kiss, his mouth warm and dry against Harry's throat.

He gives Harry's bum a good pat as he steps back. "Do you think the dyes are cool enough to carry up the stairs yet?"

"Maybe?" Harry guesses. He peers into one. "If we use gloves? They're still steaming a little."

Louis tests the side of the pot anyway and yelps when he burns his fingers.

"That's a no, I think," says Harry, wry. "How long can we keep the twins out of the kitchen?"

"They're playing with the goats," Louis says. "So until they get cold or kicked."

"So we've got time to let it cool longer? I don't want it to spill everywhere and dye the house funky colors; plus, we'd never get the vinegar smell out." Harry waves a hand in front of his nose, but he's pretty sure the fumes alone have ruined his clothes.

"I guess." Louis swings his feet, letting his heels tap against the cabinetry. Tom would have a fit if he saw. "Don't burn yourself," Louis warns. He hops down, and digs through the drawer he'd been sitting above. "Maybe oven mitts?"

They're woven with loops of old, battered socks, a Perrie special.

"That should work, yeah." Harry holds out his hand for one, and once he slips it on, tests the side of the pot. "No burning," he reports.

"Good," Louis declares. "I need your hands."

"I'll just bet." Harry laughs at that, taking another mitt and hefting one of the big pots. He makes sure not to slosh any over the sides. That'd be disastrous.

After Louis scouts ahead to make sure that Lux has made it all the way up the stairs – more than one person has tripped over her lately when she's had to admit defeat halfway up the long staircase and decided to take a nap right where she's sitting – and then they're locked in Louis' workshop.

"Should we dip them in, do you think?" Louis asks. "Or should we do something more like painting them?"

"It's a varnish, isn't it?" Harry asks. "We paint it on and see how pale it dries, and then add more if we want."

"That's good, that's smart," Louis mutters. "Smart boy, aren't you?"

He opens a drawer in the desk in the corner, withdrawing a few old, craggly paintbrushes which he brandishes like weapons. "These'll do?"

"Well enough, I guess." Harry shrugs. He opens the window, and a sharp gust of wintry air blows tiny snowflakes and chill into the room.

Louis shivers, even in his long sleeves, all buttoned up to his neck. "Bracing, that," he says. "Good for the fumes, though."

Harry's teeth chatter as he nods. "That's what I figured. Didn't want my throat to hurt later."

Louis' eyes flick up to meet Harry's, a little smile quirking the corners of his mouth before he looks away. "Right, right."

Harry quirks an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing!" Louis laughs to himself. "No, nothing. Let's get our hands on this wood. It needs a tender touch."

Harry ignores Louis' quiet laughter as they sort through the carefully-cut pieces of the dollhouse-to-be. Half will be Phoebe-Sunshine's colors; half will be Daisy's. Lux is an agreeable child and will play with anything.

"You do one, and I'll do the other?" Louis nudges a pot of smelly liquid toward Harry.

"Sure." Harry unscrews the lid of the jar of pennies and is knocked back, coughing, at the heinous smell of copper and vinegar. It's entirely too reminiscent of blood, even though it isn't the same unmistakable scent.

"You okay?" asks Louis. Harry's slacking, not as good anymore at hiding his initial reaction to things behind a well-trained mask.

Swiping a hand over his face, Harry tries to throw pictures of Detroit out of his mind. It never used to come up this often in his head; something about being here brings it all back, even though it couldn't be more different a place.

"Is it the smell?" Louis asks sympathetically, and Harry nearly has a heart attack. "You can stick your head out the window, if you want."

He does. The frozen air helps. So does the sight of the yard, peaceful and serene and autumnal gray-green. The twins are playing with the goat, Niall keeping a watchful eye as he leans on his cane. Leigh-Anne and Jade have gone to help Jesy with the washing on the porch beneath them; Harry can hear them singing. The sound of a saw sings from out near the barn and he knows Tom and Zayn are back there building things for the coming winter.

It's peaceful. Nice. Relaxed. Everybody here loves each other.

There are no guns.

It's nothing like Detroit.

He pulls back into the workshop and moves back to sit beside Louis, who's taken off the infernal clothespin. He's painting blue penny stain onto the planks that will be walls. There are pink marks on the sides of his nose.

"I'm okay," Harry mutters, and he actually halfway believes it.

Louis nudges his knee. "It's alright if you're not. Everyone has reasons not to be okay sometimes."

"Do you?" Harry asks frankly.

"Sure," Louis says easily. "All the time."

He doesn't elaborate, though. And Harry doesn't press.

"I'm still alright," Harry replies, scooting his foot across to toe at Louis' knee. "Thanks."

Louis folds his hand casually around Harry's toes and just holds them. "No need to thank me for being human."

"You do it better than most." Harry smiles, dunking his paintbrush into the dye. "I think that deserves thanks."

Louis squeezes his hand over Harry's toes once or twice. It's more comforting than it should be.

More comforting than it has any right to be, considering the circumstances.

The smell takes some getting used to, but after a while, it's not even very noticeable in the air. Harry knows that it's still there, but he's more focused on getting an even coat of the dye on his wood.

Their stains all work, which surprises him. Even though almost every creation he's seen made and used here works, he's still a city boy at heart.

"Beautiful." Louis clicks his tongue, leaning his paintbrush against the inside of his pot. "They look good, don't they?"

"They really do," Harry says. "I think the blue could take a few more coats, but I want to let it dry so the wood doesn't get moldy."

"That's probably a good idea." Louis wrinkles his nose. He looks down at the carefully laid out pieces of wood. "They'll love it, right?"

When Harry glances over incredulously, Louis looks genuinely nervous. "Of course. It'll be the best dollhouse they ever have."

"I want it to be the best one they _could_ have," Louis says.

"It will be," says Harry. He's never seen Louis this uncertain about his actions before, and it's honestly intimidating.

Louis nods, but still looks... sad and determined and unsure. Harry is almost certain, now, that Louis is younger.

"Hey," he says, his voice going softer. He can't help it. He wants to take care of Louis, because Louis is always taking care of everybody else. He deserves a break. "It'll be amazing."

Louis nods. "I guess seeing the commercials for other toys last Saturday got in my head. I just don't want them to be wanting, dig?"

"They won't be. They have everything here they could want or need." Harry settles a hand on Louis' leg. "Promise."

Lifting Harry's hand to his mouth, Louis murmurs, "Thanks, love." He kisses Harry's knuckles.

"Charmer," mutters Harry, but he's smiling and he has no way to hide it.

Louis just smirks. "So we've got some time while we're waiting for the stain to dry. What do you think we should do?"

"Well." Harry draws it out, as he draws his fingers up Louis' leg. Slow. Steady. "You mentioned before that you were thinking you might teach me something."

Louis' eyebrows go up. "Well, I thought you didn't want to. And that's fine, if you don't."

"I know, I just, well," says Harry, clearing his throat. "I like making you happy. And it'll make you happy, won't it?"

"Well, yeah." Louis snorts a laugh. "I think head makes everyone happy, probably. But I'm not gonna make you."

"You're not. I'm offering, aren't I?" Harry counters. "I just might not be very good at it."

Louis touches Harry's lip with one pink thumb. It tastes sour, but it's just beet.

He kisses it, and then, throwing caution to the wind, sucks it into his mouth.

The rough pad of Louis' thumb scrapes over Harry's lower teeth. "I think you'll be good at it. Whatever you do."

Harry presses his tongue against the blunt edge of Louis' nail. "You have an inflated sense of faith in me," he replies. Louis' confidence in him does make him a little less frightened, though.

"No, I just have faith in you," is Louis' response. "And you've got a pretty mouth that I bet you can do pretty things with."

Harry goes red again and tries to ignore that he likes being called pretty. He's a trained agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, dammit, and he's passed as a member of the Family in Chicago and raided Panthers in Detroit. He's manly.

Louis kisses the corner of his mouth, and everything is tender, would be rather intimate if it wasn't for the pervasive scent of beets and vinegar.

Louis' fingers smell like copper when he touches Harry's face, and he has to turn away again to breathe.

Louis is fine. If he looked at Louis' hands right now, they might be pink, but they wouldn't slick red with blood.

"You keep getting that look on your face." Louis' voice has gone soft to match the atmosphere. "I mean it when I say that you don't have to."

"It's not that," Harry murmurs. "D'you ever remember things you wish you hadn't, at the worst possible time?"

There's a hiccup of a moment where Louis' face goes a bit slack, his tightly wound control of his emotions loosening for just a second. His throat bobs. "Yeah," he whispers. "All the time."

The bullet wounds on his shoulders and chest and belly. Under Louis' tattoos, his skin is covered in scars. He chose to live here, away from the world – for whatever potentially nefarious purpose, Harry still doesn't know, but it's still a self-imposed sort of exile.

Harry presses his face against Louis' neck and breathes in. When he breathes out, it feels symbolic, like he's trying to breathe out his past because his future is Louis, and he wants to keep Louis in his lungs until he can't breathe anymore at all.

Maybe it's okay, here, if he flinches sometimes. He can never flinch at home. He wouldn't be allowed to be Harry if he did.

He's not Harry here, anyway. Maybe George flinches. And maybe Harry should just let himself be George instead of trying so hard to hold on to Harry.

Sounds nice, really, just being George. He probably has a happy little life here. Full of laughs.

And even if he can't do that, can't completely let go of himself, he can at least pretend. There's nobody here to tell him that he can't.

He tests a little smile against Louis' collarbone, and when that feels good, he lets himself laugh.

"What?" asks Louis, but there's a smile in his voice, too, even if he doesn't know why Harry is laughing.

"Just – I don't know, I'm about to do a ridiculous thing," Harry says, and keeps smiling. He lets Louis card his fingers through Harry's long hair, too, and doesn't even wince when he catches on the snarls.

"I've been called ridiculous before." Louis laughs, his mouth right up against Harry's ear, and Harry can feel the lines in his smiling face.

Harry shoves Louis' shoulder. "That's not what I meant, you square."

"How dare you!" Louis says with fake fury, batting right back at Harry's hands. "I'm a triangle if anything."

Harry rolls his eyes and flops back, lying on the floor with his thighs loosely bordering Louis' hips. "You're a menace, is what you are."

"You like me anyway." Louis folds his arms on Harry's chest and gives him a grin from above them, smug and self-satisfied and Harry really does like him too, too much.

He likes the way Louis is still somehow hard against his hip, right where his cock fits into the divot of Harry's hipbone where under his jeans, his skin is pale and sensitive.

And he likes the way that Louis hitches his hips right up against Harry's and feels no shame in pressing against him.

Louis' dumb mouth smirks. "Not _that_ ridiculous."

"Medium ridiculous," Harry decides. 

Louis just bends down and kisses Harry. Neither of them close their eyes, and all Harry can see is a double-vision Spectromatic Louis staring back at him. This should be what makes him laugh, but it doesn't.

"Four," he says softly once they've stopped kissing. Their lips are close enough that he can still feel Louis' when his move.

Louis kisses just Harry's top lip, and then the dip beneath his nose, the corners of his mouth. "I can live with that."

Harry doesn't think of Detroit. He doesn't think of Detroit, or Chicago, or his apartment back in Iowa. He doesn't think of any of it. It doesn't matter. What matters is Louis and him and this room in this house in this place, where he is the most himself he has ever been even while he's supposed to be the opposite.

He knows that he's pressing up against Louis' hipbone just the same way that Louis is still rutting down insistently on him.

"I want to try it," Harry whispers. "Not even for you, I don't think. For me."

Louis' cheek quirks up and his eyes crease at the corners. He looks older when he smiles.

It didn't even really make sense, what Harry said, but Louis looks proud, and he shouldn't, but Harry's still glad that he does.

"What do you want me to do?" Louis asks.

"I don't know." Harry gives him a onceover. "Maybe... I don't know. You've done this before, haven't you?"

"Yeah, 'course," Louis says. "From every side. But you haven't. There's ways it feels better for you, too. What d'you want me to do?"

"But I don't know any of those ways, so I figured maybe you'd have advice." Harry curls his fingers loosely in the front of Louis' shirt. "Should I be on my knees?" That's how people always talk about doing it, and it's what people have muttered snidely to him in grimy bars or dark back rooms.

"If you want." Louis runs his fingers through Harry's hair again, pulling his bangs back from his face to kiss his forehead again. "Pretty easy like that. I can't touch you back so easily, though."

Harry does like it when Louis touches him. "What's best for that?"

Louis shrugs one shoulder. "Could try doing it at the same time. You ever done that?"

"No." Harry's not even really sure what Louis means, but whatever it is, he's sure he hasn't done it.

Louis' smile goes toothy. He has crooked canines on the bottom.

"What?" Harry can't help smiling when Louis is. "What is it?"

"You're just in for something nice, is all." Louis walks his fingers down into the fly of Harry's jeans again. "And I like giving you nice things."

"I knew that already," Harry quips, watching Louis' fingers move. "Very giving, you are."

Louis peels open Harry's jeans. "I know."

_And modest, too._

"Shush." Louis somehow responds to something Harry didn't even say out loud, but it's hard to point that out when there's a hand on his dick.

"I thought – I was doing you?" Harry asks, his tongue feeling too big for his mouth when Louis pumps his hand.

"You will," says Louis, calm as anything. "This is just the opening act – an appetizer, if you will."

In Harry's chest bubbles nervous laughter. "You aren't gonna bite it off, are you?"

Louis looks up at him, horror obvious on his face. "Why would that even occur to you?"

"You said it was an appetizer. I thought maybe you'd pickle it in all that beet juice."

The horror, strangely, hasn't left Louis' expression. "No," he finally says. "No, that wasn't my plan at all."

"Oh. Okay. Go ahead, then." Harry waves his hand. "Have at."

"Oh, no, no," Louis says. "You're not lying back and doing nothing."

"You haven't explained yourself very well, then." Harry pillows his head on his arms, frowning up at Louis. "What am I supposed to be doing?"

"Just wait, Curious George," Louis says. Infuriating. "Take your clothes off for me, for starters."

Easy enough, and something he's done before. Harry grabs the back of his collar and off comes his shirt. He wonders if it counts as having his pants off if his dick's out, but Louis still looks expectant. He shuffles out of them, too.

He holds his arms out. "Well?"

"Give me a minute, I'm admiring you," says Louis, his eyes running over Harry's frame.

Harry sighs, closing his thighs as much as he can. He's never liked most of the ink that's on his body, since it's layers of lies and their cover-ups, but there are a few marks that are just his. Somehow, without being told, those are where Louis' eyes linger.

Humming, Louis begins to unbutton his own shirt, revealing miles and miles of ink, and Harry does love seeing it as it's exposed. It feels like a part of Louis' that is just theirs, not shared with anybody else like everything else is supposed to be.

It isn't the tattoos he's keeping secret, Harry is fairly sure; Tom and Zayn are both covered, too, and even Jesy has marks on her to cover things Harry wasn't supposed to notice. But it's still an honor.

Somehow, even though Louis isn't putting on a show, he is. He's not taking off his clothes slowly, or with added effect, but he's demanding Harry's attention. He has presence.

And the most amazing curve to his hips that Harry's ever seen. There's just something about Louis that's special. He glows.

"Are you ready?" Louis asks, leaning in to kiss Harry's lips, his fingers dancing at the edge of Harry's jaw. "I'm about to blow your mind."

"Okay," Harry says. He clears his throat. "As long as it's also just blowing something else."

Louis looks delighted. It's a good look on him, like most are.

He pats Harry's hip. "On your side, lover. There you go."

Harry raises an eyebrow but gamely rolls. His cock feels heavy between his legs.

And then Louis slots in on his side as well, shuffling in one direction and then another before he settles, apparently content. His breath is warm on Harry's inner thigh, and the curve of his hip that Harry was admiring earlier is right in Harry's line of sight.

As is his cock. It's an angle that Harry hasn't seen, and it'd be funny if it weren't so intimidating.

Louis pats Harry's hip once, twice. "Just do what I do," he instructs, his thumb dipping down to stroke over Harry's hip bone. "Don't think too hard."

Harry swallows. The smell of Louis is so thick with his skin and hair and – and – that shining white bead at the tip of his cock, he's musky and salt-heavy and smells like fresh sweat and shadows.

Louis' mouth is warm, his lips damp when he presses them to Harry's skin. He's not kissing Harry's cock, not yet, his mouth lingering at Harry's thigh.

"You can change your mind," he says, and his voice sounds far away even though they're so close together.

"I'm not going to." Harry's mouth is watering, and he swallows. "Thank you, though."

Louis rubs his fingertips over Harry's hip. "You're welcome."

Harry remembers what Louis said: _Just do what I do_. He kisses Louis' thigh, and then again, peppering kisses over the tan, sun-touched skin there.

The smell of Louis is strong, but it's nice. It clouds Harry's head like diving underwater.

And then Louis' mouth is on him. Louis doesn't go for it all at once. He likes to take people apart piece by piece. His lips push against the head of Harry's dick, more of a close-mouthed kiss than anything else.

Harry's breath stutters. It's now or never, and he'd really rather it be now. 

It doesn't taste bad. He thought it would. Just tastes like kissing Louis, mostly.

Bit saltier. Maybe if Louis had kissed a salt shaker before he kissed Harry. But otherwise, it's just sort of – Harry knows it's a dick. And he's putting his mouth on it. But it doesn't matter so much.

Louis doesn't push. He's not aggressive about it. It's like he's fine with just this little kiss, to start.

His lips part, and that's his tongue, rubbing against the slit of Harry's prick, wet, warm. Harry can't help but let his hips sway forward just a little, though he rights them almost immediately.

"Do what I do," Louis murmurs. "Follow me."

Follow him. Right. Harry's brows pull together a little as he leans his head forward. He licks his lips and then licks the head of Louis' cock, a slow, thoughtful caress.

"Soft," Harry murmurs, surprised.

"Nah, it's pretty hard," Louis says, one hand coming up to circle Harry's cock and run over it.

Harry copies him, wraps his hand around Louis' dick. It's curved in a way he likes. He's felt it before, felt it inside him. "No, I mean the skin."

"Surprised it doesn't have calluses," says Louis, laughing, and the breath of it feels interesting. "Left over from before you were here."

Harry snorts. He licks it again, just because it was nice.

The sound Louis makes is one that Harry would really, really like for him to make again.

Louis groans a soft laugh into the side of Harry's hip. It ruffles hair and tickles. "I said copy me, you. I didn't give you more yet."

"Sorry." He's not sorry, not really, and he can tell that Louis knows it because he gives Harry a little nipping bite on his thigh.

"Hush. _Now_ you get more."

Louis is done holding back, it seems. His mouth closes around the head of Harry's cock, a tight seal, his tongue stroking agonizingly slowly where Harry is leaking.

Harry gasps. Louis' hips move just enough to suggest that Harry's meant to be copying him still.

This is it. Harry takes a deep breath, and, reminding himself of what Louis told him earlier, folds his lips over his teeth before he goes charging in.

It's not like taking too big a bite of steak.

Somehow Harry thought it might be.

He's felt Louis' cock before, in his hand and up his ass and rubbing off against his hip, but it feels somehow bigger in his mouth.

He's not really sure what to do with it. He wants to copy Louis, but he can't figure out how there's supposed to be room for his tongue and a cock both in his mouth at the same time.

Louis sucks; that's definitely a sucking action taking place, but Harry's afraid that if he tries that, he'll end up choking to death on a dick. Wouldn't that be a wonderful way to end his mission? Liam wouldn't be able to look his mother in the eye at his funeral. Nick would probably keep mum about it, and lie so that Harry could get a killed-in-the-line-of-duty star. Nick's a good friend.

He's not thinking about that right now.

Except that he is. He's thinking about where he should be, what the fuck Liam and Nick could even do if he dies now, when everyone here would tell the rest of the team, Joshua and Hensley and god, probably Section Chief Cowell, in their interrogation rooms, about how George and Louis were together. _Together_.

The cock suddenly feels a lot bigger in his mouth. The whole room, though, that feels smaller.

The tang in the air from all the vinegar and wood stain is too sharp, the air coming in from the window too cold.

He tries to breathe in but it's just more of the same, vinegar and cock and lies.

And he can't breathe. He can't breathe. 

_Center. Calm down. Lower heart rate._

Not working.

There's not a dick in his mouth anymore, but he still feels like he's gagging, like he just can't breathe even though he knows that he's fully capable. In the back of his mind in a monotone somebody is saying _calm down. Calm down. Just stay calm. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out._

"Hey," Louis murmurs, and it sounds like the voice in Harry's head. "George, you're alright. It's okay, it's over."

All at once, Harry takes in a great gasp of air, lungfuls of it, and it's still got a tint of vinegar to it but it doesn't singe his throat or coat the inside of his mouth.

Louis' fingers are in Harry's hair. "You're alright. Just breathe."

And Louis told Harry to follow his lead. It seems like years and years ago even though it's only been minutes, but Harry takes one shaky breath in and then lets it out.

"I'm sorry," he means to say, but the whisper comes so quietly that Harry can't even hear it, let alone Louis.

Louis kisses his head. Harry wouldn't have even noticed if he wasn't hyperaware of everything that's happening in that moment from the smell to the quiet sound of Jesy singing a floor below.

He wants not to have wanted that kiss.

He needs not to have _needed_ that kiss.

He's a trained agent and he just broke down on the floor of a still-maybe cult leader's house because he had a dick in his mouth. Everything's wrong. He'd thought that he could do this, that he could at least pretend that everything could be okay, but nothing is.

For the first time since he was a probationary agent in Detroit, he's in over his head.

"Hey, hey, what happened?" Louis asks. His voice is gentle like it went when Daisy fell head over heels out in front of the house and skinned her knee.

How is he not angry? He's _Louis Tomlinson_. He's the problem Harry is here to eliminate. He isn't supposed to solve the problems.

"George?" Even now, he doesn't quite sound panicked. Or – he sounds like he's trying to sound collected, but there's concern there. He's not supposed to be concerned. Well, he is, but he's not supposed to be honest about it.

"Nothing happened," Harry mutters faintly, then coughs and sits up, moving away from Louis. "Nothing happened."

"I'd call that something." Louis doesn't let Harry get too far, his hand resting on Harry's ankle. It's meant to be reassuring, probably, but it feels like a hammer waiting to deliver a blow.

Harry bristles as a chill breeze shoots through the window and insists at the hair at the nape of Harry's neck.

Maybe Louis can sense it. Maybe he's good at that sort of thing, knowing when not to go too far. He removes his hand.

"I told you that you didn't have to," he says mildly.

It sounds like an accusation and it makes Harry wish, however briefly, that he had his gun back. "I don't know why that happened," he mutters.

He shakes his head. "It won't happen again. It was a mistake, I'm sorry."

There's no sound from behind him as Harry shuffles back into his clothing. When he looks back, Louis is still naked and has his arms splayed behind him, legs tucked up at a sharp angle with his feet flat on the floor. A crease between his eyebrows takes over his face as he stares up at Harry.

"What was a mistake, George? What won't happen again?"

His name's not George. It's Harry. His name is Harry Styles and this is not who he is.

Harry swallows. "I don't – nothing, Louis." He has to keep this contact.

And he has to set up a meet with Liam. He needs a dose of reality.

"What does that mean? Why're you freaking out?" Louis presses. "What won't happen again?"

He doesn't have an answer. He _should_ say, _any of it, Louis, I'm not like that_ , but he can't. What happened is that he can't say it, that he's not like that. But he also can't say that he is, because he'll never come back. Harry Styles is not like that. And Louis can never know Harry Styles is here. There is no solution.

They didn't train him for this. They probably should have.

"I just – I need some air," he says, shoving a hand through the gnarled tangles of his hair. "I need some air."

Louis stands. He's still naked, shameless. Gorgeous. "Are you coming back?"

"I don't have anywhere else to go, do I?" It comes out angrier than George would have said it. He's terrible at his job and he's terrible at his life.

Never has a face looked so sad as Louis'. "I don't want you to feel like you can't leave. But you're welcome here no matter what... can't happen again, dig?"

Harry can read between the lines. He knows what Louis isn't saying just as well as he knows what he is, and at least that's good, that he can still – if he can pull himself together – complete his assignment.

His eyelids weigh too heavily to keep them open. "Thank you."

"Sorry," he adds, but his vision's going swimmy and he needs to get outside into the fresh air because his stomach is dangerously unhappy with him.

He needs to get to a phone. He needs to check in. He needs to know – he needs to know who he even reports to, he needs to know whether the world is still standing outside or whether the Iron Curtain's closed in, he needs to know whether Liam, his partner, is still _alive_. He needs Gemma. And Mom.

Knowing where the lockbox is with his gun inside does him no good. He doesn't want to _shoot_ Louis. He just needs to have contact with the outside. He needs to know that what he's doing here will actually _mean_ something when he's finished doing it.

Louis just nods, his hands behind his back. "You're always welcome. And I hope you come back." He pauses. "Keys to the truck are in the glove box."

It's like a gift from a higher power. It's exactly what Harry needs. If he can get into town, and use a phone – somehow, everything will be okay.

_And_ , whispers the back of his mind, _It's a reason to come back. Blame-free._ Louis Tomlinson is good.

Harry just needs to be better. And he will be, once he can update Liam, or Nick, or whomever he can get on the phone.

They just need to know what's going on here. What's really happening. Why Harry's doing what he's doing, he just needed to get close to Louis, and –

Well. He's done that part, at least.

When he steps through the threshold of Louis' workshop door and looks back, Louis is still standing in the middle of the room. Still naked, tattooed, scarred. He's standing alone like the world's forsaken him.

And Harry just can't.

So he promises, quietly, "I'll come back."

Of course he will. He never even honestly considered the opposite an option.

Louis' face breaks open like the breeze still bringing cold in through the window, but he doesn't move. He knew, too, that Harry was coming back. He must have.

The grain of the wood on the door is rough when Harry pushes out of the room. His stomach is no calmer, and he'd rather get outside before he vomits. He nearly plows down Zayn as he stumbles down the stairs, black spots in front of his eyes.

"Hey, mate," Zayn asks, steadying Harry's shoulders. "You alright?"

How does Zayn – why is Zayn here; Harry still doesn't know, what has Zayn done, what blood is on these hands, what _else_ is on these hands besides _Niall_ and _how can Perrie when Zayn and Niall_?

"I need air, I need to leave," Harry says. He's babbling. He should give off the impression that nothing is wrong but he's having a bad day all around in that area.

"It's freezing out there," Zayn says. "You'll catch your death if you leave."

And now Zayn sounds concerned. Zayn, who keeps his emotions so closely guarded that getting a smile out of him is sometimes like trying to open a stubborn jar of pickles. He's not certain whether he just looks that terrible or if he's worse at his job than he thought.

"Erm, I'll be fine," Harry blusters, shaking away from Zayn. "Just, I – air. Cold will be nice. I'll, I'm. Yeah."

"Hey." Zayn's grip is just a little too tight as he catches his wrist, and his eyes are on Harry's so fiercely that he can't look away. Zayn watches him for one second, two, three, and then: "Is Louis okay?"

Harry shakes his head before his brain gives him that permission. Sloppy. "I don't know."

Zayn's fingers tighten. "What happened?" he asks, insistent. "Are you leaving?"

"No." It's the truth. It's George's truth, and it's Harry's.

That gets him a loosened grip, though Zayn's brow is still fiercely drawn together. "Okay." He lets go and nods toward the door. "Take a coat or Perrie'll have my head."

Harry nods and ducks the rest of the way down the stairs, taking them two at a time. At the bottom, Lux pops out from around a corner and gives him a broad smile, one of those creepy tooth-baring small-child baboon mouthed grins.

"Dorge!"

Not his name. It's not his name. That isn't his name.

He grabs the first coat he sees and, without bothering to put it on first, pushes his way out of the house.

"Dorge, wait!" Tiny feet speed around the floor and then there's a Lux clinging onto his leg where he’s already halfway out the door. Lux is wearing a tiny threadbare sweater that hangs down to her ankles like an oversize nun’s habit. "Love you."

Harry's about to throw up on a toddler. He's actually going to vomit on a small child.

He swallows, so hard that it hurts his throat, and pats her head. "Love you, too," he croaks out.

She beams at him, and then wipes her runny nose on his knee before running away again, back into the house and towards her mother's call.

The keys to the truck are in the glove box. In the glove box. He can make it there, and then it's basically a straight line into town. He knows from Louis talking about how his license is useless, because he wouldn’t need it anyway.

The truck is far enough away that it's a stretch to remember. Or it would be if the route weren't so burned into Harry's mind forever, the place where he and Louis… well. He can't think about that. All the words he knows for it are wrong, anyway.

It starts with a grumbly rumble, but start it does. Part of Harry was worried that it wouldn't, that the only reason Louis felt so comfortable telling him where the keys were was because the truck didn't work at all.

But it does. There's no road to take it down, and snow has dusted over any possible cleared paths. He has to maneuver through the wilderness to get to anywhere even remotely resembling a packed-dirt rural road, and from there it's a sharp turn that makes the wheels squeak.

The house is visible in the rearview mirror, but Harry doesn't watch it fade into the distance.

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	9. Chapter Nine

It's not actually that far into town, if it can be called a town, down the rural highway. There's a gas station with payphones, anyway, which is what he needs. And a brick building that's either an oversized outhouse or the pub Niall's mentioned.

He desperately would like to get drunk, but... That's not what he needs. What he needs is the phone.

It's cold as Siberia out here and the snowflakes are the size of Harry's fingernails. But he bundles into the coat he'd thrown on at the door – it smells like Tom's smoke – and hustles to the payphone to make a collect call to Quantico. He dials his zero and N.P.A. before his numbers to ask to the operator for Nick Grimshaw's office.

Sophia answers when it rings through, and she's delighted to switch Harry's call to Liam's desk.

"Payne," comes Liam's brisk baritone from the telephone. Harry nearly hangs up and tries again. He likes Liam – as a partner and as a man – but he just isn't sure how to tell Liam that he's fucked up to this extent.

"Liam? 'S'Harry." The name feels unfamiliar in his mouth.

"Harry?" Liam sounds flabbergasted. He hardly ever sounds anything but perfectly composed, but Harry's in no place to appreciate it. He doesn't say anything, and then, suspiciously, says, "Styles?"

"Yeah." Now that Harry has Liam on the phone, he doesn't know what he wants to say. He bites off the hangnail from his pinkie, a habit he's learned from Louis.

"You've been gone months; we figured you were deep undercover when we didn't hear anything in October." Harry can picture Liam perfectly, neatly set up at his desk, hair combed back, uniform on. Everything Harry's not. "Do you need backup?"

"Nah," Harry mutters. "I'm, yeah. I'm in deep." There's a silence between them, and Harry appreciates it. Liam never makes Harry talk unless he wants to, unless Harry's fucked up and Liam _needs_ his explanation.

But he doesn't know that's now, yet.

"Do you need to report anything back?" There's a shuffling sound on the other end and Harry just knows that Liam has a pencil and a pad of paper at the ready.

Harry is silent in the cold. He knows that Tom dodged the Draft. He suspects Niall's IRA. Who knows what happened to Jade, and nobody's paying taxes. "Nah. I just... I wanted to find out how things are on the outside. Sorry. Risky. I dunno what I was thinking."

"Oh. You don't need anybody to move in?" Liam sounds disappointed. Must not be a busy week at the office.

"Not yet," Harry says. "Haven't found anything. I think I gained Tomlinson's trust, but... but I think I fucked it up."

"What's happened?" Now Liam's just alert, ready to act. It's one of Harry's favorite things about Liam, and one of the reasons he's glad it's him on the other end of the line. Liam is very, very good at his job.

"Nothing major," Harry assures him, stomach twinging. "He didn't make me. I just got a bit – out of character. For a while. But I'm back."

"What do you mean, out of character? Are you compromised? Does he suspect you're not who you say you are?" Liam fires the questions off one right after the other.

"I said he didn't make me," Harry snaps. He breathes. "I'm fine, Liam. Things are fine. I shouldn't have called. Do not come out here. I'm handling it."

"Hmm," is what Liam says. It's his are-you-angry-with-me-or-yourself hum. Harry hates it, because the answer is always himself.

"It's really okay, Liam. I'm sorry." Harry is exhausted. This double-life is exhausting. "I'm gonna go."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Liam asks. "You don't need any backup?"

"No," Harry says quickly. "Don't send anyone out here. It's too isolated; if someone else new shows up, they'll get suspicious. Everything's fine. I promise."

Liam pauses, then: "Well, we miss you down here. Nobody else brings in bagels for breakfast. Where's that place you get them from? I might have to head down there in the morning."

A little out of place, maybe, but not at all for Harry. It's a chance for him to use his duress code, if he needs to, if somebody's listening in on his call and forcing him to lie. All he'd need to do is say, "That place down on Federal."

"They're just from the grocery store, Liam," Harry says, shaking his head. "You need to toast them, is all."

"Right, right, of course. You know how my memory is." Liam laughs, and if Harry's not mistaken, he sounds disappointed. "Good of you to check in. I'll let the boys know you're just fine."

"Yeah, yeah," Harry says. "Give Danielle my love."

"Might have to raincheck on that," Liam says. "I'm in hot water. We've a new secretary."

"You're a stud." Harry laughs. There've been about six secretaries since he started at the agency, and Liam's been in hot water over all of them.

Liam harrumphs, and then the operator is back on the line because Liam's hung up on him.

He does feel more centered now, even if he's not sure what he's meant to be doing. Or, well, he knows what he's meant to be doing; he's just not sure if he can do it. But he has to. It's what he's here for. Liam could do it with no problems.

Harry hangs the receiver onto its hook, depressing the metal tongue. He could call Gemma. Speak to the toddler, maybe. Although she'd just remind him of Lux.

At that point, he might as well just go back and speak to Lux. He should, anyway, since it's his mission to be there and not here.

"George?"

Harry's heart explodes in drumbeats as he spins around.

It's not Louis. Not Louis. It isn't Louis.

But it is Niall, and if Niall heard any of his conversation at all, he will tell Louis.

"Niall," Harry gasps, his hand pressed to his chest. "What are you doing here?"

"Could ask you the same," Niall points out. His blue eyes are a little smudged and his cheeks are bright pink.

"I, uh. I needed to get out of the house." Harry coughs. "Louis knows I'm gone."

Niall nods, his blonde hair escaping its braid. "He doesn't know I am. Please don't tell him."

"I won't," Harry promises, and he means it.

Niall leans heavily on his cane in the snow. "D'you want a drink? Look like you could use one."

He shouldn't. He really shouldn't, and for more than one reason... but he could really use a drink.

He nods. "Sure. But I don't have any money."

"I'll handle it," Niall says. "I got a deal with the barkeep. Name's Breslin. He's a mate of my mates from back 'ome."

Provisional IRA too, then. Sinn Féin.

"If you're sure." Harry thinks, again, about Gemma, and his mother, and how Liam is counting on him to do his job. Make them trust you. He smiles. "Thanks a lot."

Niall hobbles off back to the brick building Harry rightly assumed was a pub. It isn't deserted inside, but it's definitely been affected by rural isolation and winter dreariness.

The man behind the bar tips them a wave and doesn't ask questions. Harry can admire that in a person.

There's a knot of men in their forties sitting at a table with cards out in front of them and a pile of peanut shells around their feet. They deftly switch to speaking Irish Gaelic when they spot Harry.

"Spare a pint for my friend, here," says Niall to the man, who Harry can only assume is the aforementioned Breslin. He notices that Niall's accent is thicker, harder to decipher, when he's speaking to the man.

"He a good one?" Breslin asks, and he depresses a pint of stout so dark and flat that it looks like coffee into a heavy glass.

"One of Louis'," Niall replies, and they exchange a significant look.

"Ah," says Breslin. He gives Harry a smile missing a chunk of eyetooth on one side. He pours a dram of whiskey into a shotglass and plunks that down next to the pint. "For your troubles."

Harry gets the feeling that he doesn't quite want to read between these lines, so he just takes the shot.

It isn't watered down at all, and burns Harry's throat as he swallows. Whiskey is strong, but it still doesn’t hold a candle to Niall’s moonshine.

It feels like it immediately goes to his head, though that's probably not the case. He's not seventeen getting drunk on his best friend's moonshine in his dad's shed anymore.

Niall tosses back his own shot like it's chamomile tea and smacks his lips. "So, Georgie. What brings you out here?"

Harry shrugs carefully, looking down into the abyss in his glass. "Needed to get out of the house for a while. We're making the wood dye, you know, and it can get really stuffy."

"That's why you go out and play 'Ring Around the Goat' with the twins," Niall says. "You _left_. How'd you even get out here? Snowing. My tracks'd be covered."

Harry has the key to the truck in his pocket, but he's not sure if Niall actually knows about it. Zayn does; he's certain of that, but Louis hasn't mentioned it to anybody else, as far as Harry's aware.

"Just wandering," he says. "I could still see the path even without your prints. I followed it. I wasn't following you," he adds quickly.

"Didn't say you were." It's hard to catch Niall being anything but cheerful. "I believe you."

"Why are you out here?" Harry asks.

"Bit stuffy in the house, like you said." Niall shrugs. "Perrie's got Zayn helping her fold baby clothes even while she's knitting more."

Harry's still not clear on the Zayn-Niall-Perrie relationship. He doubts he ever will be. "Exciting, though. The baby."

Niall shrugs. "I guess so. Another mouth to feed that we weren't expecting. But then, so were you. And you're alright."

"Thanks," says Harry. He's not sure it was a compliment.

Niall nods. He takes a long draft of his beer.

Breslin is off on the other side of the bar now, and Harry has a job to do, so he clears his throat. "How's he know Louis, then?" he asks, tilting his head toward the other man.

Niall shrugs. "Everyone knows who Louis Tomlinson is, don't they?"

"Do they?" 

"Sure," Niall says. "Not enough people around here for everyone not to know each other a bit. You were the first real stranger I'd met in years. How _did_ you find us? You never said."

Harry takes a drink before he answers. This is good, he's good at this. "I just wanted to go as far east as I could," he says quietly. "When I got to Chesterfield, they told me that I should go north because there was a place there that would take me in."

"Who told you?" Niall counters. "Why East and not West? Why not San Francisco?"

Niall's good at this, too. Harry has an idea how Niall's knee got messed up back in Ireland.

"I just picked a direction. Anywhere was better than where I was, and I figured they'd look – I figured that San Francisco was too obvious."

"So who told you where to find Louis?" Niall asks. "Neither of you's ever mentioned Chesterfield before."

"They didn't tell me his name there. Just that there was a place where they would let me stay a few days." Harry shrugs. "I didn't find out his name until I got to a town a few miles from here."

For as many shots as Niall's doubtlessly had today, he's still awfully sharp. "How'd you know someone in Chesterfield if you wasn't from there?"

"I didn't know anybody. I asked at a diner. Sometimes they let you have the food they burned or that people sent back if you look pathetic enough." Harry is sharp as well.

"And they just said that we was up here?" Niall shakes his head. "Louis won't like that."

"I haven't mentioned it to him." Harry shifts in his seat. "Do you think I should? I think it was just a rumor that'd been passed around."

"Well, if they tell you, they'll tell anyone, won't they?" Niall asks. "Not safe."

"So I should tell him?" Harry asks. It's not like they'll be able to go to Chesterfield and check. Not with one rickety truck and a baby on the way.

"I think if someone comes and knows where Louis's been, I'll tell him who to blame," Niall says, and the low tone in his voice puts the base of Harry's spine on alert. "But," Niall says, lightly, leaning one elbow against the bar, "He's also told me I'm kicked out of I keep leaving, so we'll just guard each other then, won't we."

"We will," says Harry. It's another moment where he wishes he had his gun even if he's not using it. It's reassuring to know he has the backup.

He looks down into his pint glass. It seems deeper than it should.

"Good." And just as suddenly, Niall's back to cheerful nonchalance. "Drink your pint."

Harry makes a small, displeased noise, but does as he's told.

"There's a good lad." Niall pats Harry's back and he nearly upends the whole drink. "We should get back before it's dark out. The roads are hell enough in the daytime."

"Roads?" Harry asks. "You mean 'the hunk of forest you hacked out with a machete'?"

"Hey, that's all roads are where I'm from." Niall snickers, honest to god snickers.

Harry rolls his eyes. "Won't Louis know you've gone if you come back drunk?"

"Me drunk isn't so different from me sober, my friend." Niall swings an arm around Harry's neck. "Gettin' hammered on the liquor of life."

Harry scrubs one hand over his eyes. "Groovy. Let's get back. I'll deliver you to Zayn, okay?"

"The best present of all." Niall laughs again, beer on his breath, and leans his weight against Harry. "I'm sure he'll be happy."

"He will," Harry says confidently. "And Perrie, too. Come on, let's go."

"I always forget me leg don't work, while I'm drinking," Niall says. "And then I stand up and remember."

"It doesn't hurt all the time, then?" Harry pauses before he asks, and preemptively flinches. Just a little. Enough that if it was Louis, he'd be frowning already.

"Not when I'm drinkin'," Niall says cheerfully enough. "But then I stop. And I remember."

"Is it recent?" Harry asks. Prodding and poking is dangerous in this group, he's learned. It might be less so when Niall's drunk. He's not sure yet.

"Been a few years." Niall lets Harry steer him towards the door. Walking back with Niall in this state and the snow still falling outside just isn't going to happen. He's going to have to reveal the secret of the truck.

And then Niall says, "You brought the truck, right?"

"Oh," Harry says, surprised. "Yeah. You knew about the truck?"

"I keep it repaired," Niall offers. "I know a lot about engineering, mechanics, engines, that sort of thing. Especially cars. I know fuel lines and that."

"Oh. I wasn't sure who knew and didn't know about it." He should've suspected, anyway. For all that Louis threatens to kick Niall out, he's clearly trusted.

"Just me and Zayn," Niall says. "Which means, probably Perrie. Which means probably Jade."

"Not Jesy? Or Leigh?" Harry asks, feeling in his pocket for the key, warm from the heat of his leg.

"I doubt it," Niall says. "I think they like to pretend there's nowhere outside to drive to."

"You don't?" asks Harry softly. "Or Zayn?"

"Nah, mate," Niall says, seriously. "I don't. I have people I love still out here, you know. There's a world I care about. Zayn, he likes it inside with Perrie and Louis and nobody else."

"And you," Harry adds. Unless he's wildly misinterpreted something, Zayn cares about Niall an awful lot.

Niall shrugs. "Sure. For now."

They slide into the cab of the truck and Harry starts it up. It takes a few tries for the engine to turn over in this cold.

"I'll give her a look over once we get it back," Niall says, running his hand over the dashboard. "She just needs some love."

Harry eases out onto the snow-covered dirt-pack road. "Don't we all?"

He's not sure what he'll find when he gets back to the house. He's not even sure if he and Louis are he and Louis anymore, or if he can be part of that and still remember to be himself.

He has to; he knows that. He just isn't sure anymore – hasn't been for a long time – that the job he came to do is one worth doing.

Zayn is in the kitchen when they return, and he takes Niall from Harry. Zayn has pinched eyebrows when he sees Niall’s drunken grin, but gives him an indulgent smile anyway. Louis is nowhere to be found, so after kissing all of the children hello, Harry heads up the stairs to where he'd left him.

He hasn't left the room. Harry's both surprised and not surprised at all to find Louis very much like how he'd left him.

"Hi," he says quietly. "Paint fumes got to you yet?"

Louis doesn't appear surprised at Harry's voice, and his smile is only slightly wilted when he turns to look at him. "You look cold," he notes, instead of responding.

"It's nippy out," Harry agrees. "Winter's coming fast."

"It always does. No matter how early we try to prepare, it always sneaks up on us." Louis groans as he shifts to his feet, stretching his arms above his head as he unfolds. "I'm getting old."

His hair is thick and dark, his muscles prime. "You are not."

"My bones have started creaking," Louis protests, though there's a hint of a better smile on his lips now. "I'll be going gray soon, you just wait."

Harry shakes his head. "That'll be a sight. Big gray beard, you'll look like a physics professor."

"I think I'd probably teach English or something." Louis shakes his head. "I can't be fucked with numbers."

"Drama," Harry suggests. "You are always good for a bit of that."

His expression comically offended, Louis holds a hand to his chest. "I have no idea what you mean by that."

Harry laughs, but it's forced and they both know it. Louis' shirt is still unbuttoned and he's so achingly lovely and so far away.

"I'm glad you did come back." His voice has gone softer in appreciation for the silent change in atmosphere. "I thought you would."

For once, the answer that Harry himself has is the same that he would need to say for George. "Where else would I go?"

At that, Louis' face crumples a little. "I'd hoped you'd come back because you wanted to," he clarifies. "Not because you had to."

He could have left.

He could have told Liam that the mission was a dud and that he was ready to come home.

"I did want to," Harry says honestly, and his voice breaks.

Louis is rubbing his arms, and he isn't quite looking at Harry. It's odd for him to be so small, and it's a rare occasion when he isn't direct with his eye contact. "I wouldn't have blamed you if you hadn't," he says. It has the air of confession. "Or – I would have, but that's just because sometimes I'm not really a good person. So I would've blamed you. But I would've known I shouldn't."

"It's okay," Harry says. "I can... I can just go back to sleeping on my own, unless someone takes pity on me, I guess. It's, it was nice. But I don't mind."

"Was?" There's something very breakable in Louis' voice now, but Harry doesn't know what it is. He wishes he did because he's broken enough here without watching something else shatter on the floor.

Harry swallows and looks down at his feet. "I couldn't, I just figured that you would want, and I can't – I just, I'm sorry, but I just _can't do_... I'm not ready. I might not ever be, for – I can't."

"I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to," Louis says slowly. "I never would. I told you that; I told you that it was up to you."

Harry's already shaking his head. Louis doesn't get it. "But then how are we – I'm fine with the other stuff, I guess, but... basically, I don't know how to be –" He swallows the word. _Gay_.

"You don't have to be anything other than you." Louis waves his hand in an all-encompassing gesture. "I don't want you to be. I'm not asking for anything else."

"I don't understand."

"I just want you," Louis says plaintively. "If all we do is sit and hold hands and paint dollhouses and watch cartoons, then – I mean, that's a bit childish and weird, but that's fine with me. If you want to wear flower crowns in your hair and dance naked under the moon, then I want that with you. Hell, if you want me to read physics books and look like a professor, then I'll try. But I'll be boring, so please don't want that." He shakes his head. "I don't give a fuck if you don't want to do blowjobs. That's fucking... window dressing."

"But you want to do them." Harry's head is spinning a little. "Isn't that what... Isn't that just what you do when you're – when it's all... this?"

Louis looks exasperated. "Is sex all straight couples do? I thought I saw Lou and Tom doing art together and Zayn and Perrie reading books, but maybe I was wrong and just masking the nakedness."

That makes far too much sense. Harry hadn't really thought about it that way. Lou and Tom are always together doing things, and even though Harry knows some of those things involve sex, obviously not all of them do.

All anyone Harry's ever known had talked about when they talked about homosexuals was the sex they had. How much of it. How perverse. How it was wrong. Harry's never thought about how much of everything _else_ must be a part of that life. It's as much of being alive as anyone else.

"So we don't have to?" he asks, slowly, still unable to really say the word.

"No!" Louis shakes his head. "Nothing you don't want, George. You are gorgeous, and I'm attracted to you, but I'm attracted to all of you. You make me laugh. That's more important than making me hard, jesus."

"I do like some of it," Harry assures, because it's just not possible that Louis would be willing to go entirely without. "A lot of it, even. It's just that."

Louis' palms are open. "Whatever you want, George. I just want you."

It seems far too good to be true, and a voice at the back of Harry's mind says that means it probably is. But right now, it's what he needs to hear.

"Okay," he murmurs. The room has fallen dark around them, and Louis is little more than a purple-shadowed silver silhouette against the window. He's a ghost. "So what now?"

"Now, whatever you'd like." Louis holds his arms out. "We can stay here. We can go downstairs. I can stay here and you can go downstairs. Whatever you want, George. All I want is for you to be happy and comfortable."

It's nice here, in the dark. In their room, where they've spent enough time to build a literal castle. "I'd like to stay here, with you."

"Where it's safe?" Louis' smile is like a balloon slowly being filled with air. "It can be awfully scary, navigating those stairs in the dark."

"I am clumsy," Harry agrees. Louis sits, so Harry sits. It's easiest to let him lead.

"You could come over here," Louis invites. Right now, there are only feet between them. "If you wanted."

As Harry gets closer to Louis, his eyes adjust to the dark and Louis' face grows back its detail: the upturn of his nose, his fan of eyelashes, small shell ears. The smell of him, like hay and fresh clean sweat and faintly sweet-sour like their boiled paints, wraps around Harry like a quilt.

It does make him feel safe. Louis had said it as a joke, but it's true, and it's not a feeling Harry's used to.

He smells like security, which isn't something Harry would have given a scent before. If anything, it would have smelled like the cleaning oil for his gun.

Now, it's been months since he's caught that smell, but he's always surrounded by the smell of Louis.

His gun's been on him when he was beaten, tortured, burned, when he had to laugh about all of the things that Louis is offering him like a gift.

Maybe it doesn't smell like security after all.

Harry eases his head onto Louis' shoulder and breathes it in, and it smells more like home than his gun ever has.

Louis gathers Harry's hair and moves it off his neck before nuzzling a soft kiss to the skin there, just where it makes Harry feel like he's made of butter, goosebumps puckering up along his arms.

"I'm glad you came back," Louis whispers. He's said it already but it sounds different now.

Harry closes his eyes and presses his face into Louis' shoulder. "I am, too."

"I was thinking," says Louis after a moment. "Sometimes the sleeping room can get awfully cramped, don't you think? With everybody inside?"

Harry nods. "Yeah, sometimes I feel like we're all sardines."

"Smells less like it, now that it's not so hot and sweaty," Louis jokes.

"I'm just glad that the floors don't creak." Harry pushes his smile against Louis' arm. "Nobody would ever get any sleep."

Louis laughs softly. "Well, I was thinking. Maybe tonight we can give them all some space. Two fewer people in the room?"

Harry nods, slow, unsure of what Louis is really saying. There's something behind his words, he's sure of that. "We could do that."

"I have some popcorn stashed in my secret cove," Louis confides. "Want to go on a date?"

A feeling blooms in Harry's chest, like he's blushing from the inside out. "A date?" he repeats.

"Yeah," Louis says. "Popcorn, television. Maybe a kiss at the end if I'm lucky, but only if you want."

He's deliberately being very casual about the whole thing, and that more than anything is what makes Harry want to agree. He stated that he had limits he wasn't willing to compromise, and Louis is clearly heeding them, and it's weird, because Harry's not used to it, but it's nice. It feels a little bit how he'd imagine couples in high school feel.

Maybe Louis will give him a letterman's jacket.

They stop off for dinner with everyone else, but it's a perfunctory meal. If anyone notices the nervous anticipation in both of their eyes, they don't say anything.

Louis speaks to Zayn in tones too quiet for Harry to hear, but Zayn peers at him one too many times for Harry to pretend they're not discussing him. They're not angry looks, or cutting. Mostly, they just look considering.

After they've all finished eating, and Harry has passed the twins and Lux all of his servings of peas because no matter how hungry he is, he just can't bear tinned peas, Zayn stands and wrings his hands.

"Alright, team," he addresses the littles. "Let's wash up."

"But it's George's turn!" Phoebe-Sunshine squawks.

"George's turn isn't until tomorrow," Zayn says, casual as anything. Harry knows for a fact that it _is_ his turn. "You know how much I love dishes, and George was kind enough to trade with me."

"But why do we have to help?" Daisy asks.

Lux throws up her arms. "Yeahwhy?"

"Because you love your Uncle Zayn very much and it'll be a good learning experience." Zayn ducks down to kiss the top of Daisy's head.

The twins both groan, and after a measured beat, Lux joins in.

"Learning 'sperience," Phoebe-Sunshine grumbles, folding her arms across her chest.

They follow Zayn back to the sink like sullen little ducklings in a row.

Harry gives Louis a questioning look, but receives only a sunny smile in return.

Everyone else lingers at the table, but when Louis stands, the rest do, too, following his lead. They clear out to wherever they're spending their evenings before retiring to bed.

"Come on," Louis urges, grasping Harry's wrist and giving it a tug when he hesitates to follow the others. "You're with me, babe."

Harry's stomach gives a little flutter. "Where are we going?"

"We're going on that date." Louis grins at him and pecks him on the cheek.

Harry follows Louis as he gathers knitted afghans and a floppy pillow. He winds a scarf around Harry's neck. "Cold out there."

"It _is_ November." It's hard for Harry to measure how much he's endeared by Louis, practically skipping around the room with a flush in his cheeks and a sparkle in his eye.

Louis makes a face at Harry, and then – when he's sure that no one is looking their way – slips out the kitchen door.

Harry follows at a sedate pace. He'd rather go quickly but that would draw attention, and Louis is clearly trying to avoid that.

Louis' breath is a little white puff in front of him in the cold air outside.

"Took you long enough," he says, bright and cheerful.

"That was about six seconds," Harry replies, already shivering. It's not yet cold enough for there to be snow on the ground, but everything feels that bit sharper.

"Come on." Louis offers his hand. "We can warm up when we get down to the root cellar."

"Won't it be colder underground?" Harry points out. He takes Louis' hand anyway, and weaves their fingers together. Body heat is good for the cold.

Louis pauses. "Oh. Maybe. But that's what the blankets are for. Don't ruin my attempt at romance so soon."

"Sorry." Harry clears his throat. "Oh, Louis," he says, pressing closer and holding on to Louis' hand with both of his own now. "I can't wait to be alone with you in the warm root cellar."

Louis just winks. "I know. It's paradise."

The sad thing is, Harry wasn't kidding. Even though the last time he'd been alone with Louis was disastrous, he's full of foolish hope.

It sounds, even in his head, like silly, foolish nonsense, but alone with Louis is one of Harry's favorite places to be, and they don't even need to be doing anything. Just sitting silently working on the dollhouse is enough for him.

That might be what Louis was talking about, earlier.

But then what's the difference, really, between being gay and being –

Harry still thinks, _being normal_.

Maybe there's no difference at all. In fact, thinking about it now, here, it seems like there _isn't_ any difference at all.

Zayn is just as sweet with Niall as he is with Perrie. The way that Leigh-Anne and Jade treat each other is hardly different from Tom and Lou.

And he and Louis behave just like Harry's seen Liam behave with his girlfriends, except for their surroundings.

Of course, Louis doesn't flirt with as many other boys as Liam flirts with other women, but probably he's just grown immune to Zayn's and Niall's and Tom's charms over the years.

And he does (or did) watch them all while they have sex, so maybe that's just how flirting happens here.

But the way Louis is batting his eyelashes?

He hasn't done that for anyone else since Harry's been here.

Louis tugs Harry's hand again. "Come on," he repeats, and then he starts off toward the cellar.

Harry rubs his hands together for warmth, and a little for nerves, and follows along in Louis' wake.

"Any hints as to what we'll be doing on this date?" Harry asks, keeping his arms tucked in. Even though his sleeves are long, his elbows are beginning to feel the cold. It's a good thing the walk to the cellar won't last forever.

"I told you, popcorn, television, some necking if you want," Louis says. "A proper romantic date."

Necking. Even just thinking the word makes Harry smile, thinking of boys and girls and drive-ins, clammy palms and clumsy petting. _Necking_. He's a teenager again.

"There you are," Louis says, sounding pleased at the smile. "That's all I wanted."

"What's all you wanted? Necking?" Harry asks in a tease. "I could've told you that."

"No," Louis says, wrinkling his nose. "I wanted you to smile again."

"I smile all the time." It's disgustingly true. Being here makes it hard not to smile, when everybody around him's always in such a good mood. It rubs off. Before today, the last time he was genuinely upset about something was... a while ago.

Something Liam said, probably, or having to leave Gemma and his mother again right after the new niece's Baptism.

He spent a lot of his first few months here with a general sense of upset but that was more because he was expecting an anger that never came. It's hard to be upset about something when you've got no basis for your anger.

There are two choices then: you can find one, manifest your anger in a person or an idea and use it to fuel you until you explode, or you can let it beat you down until you're frail and tired. Harry had never known about the third option, then.

To let it go. And be happy.

Another thing Louis's taught him. He'll have to add it to the list.

It's pitch black when they ease down into the root cellar, but Louis lights a lantern on the wall. The television, too, although it's snowy black-and-white, adds ambient light like the remnants of an apartment across the way in Chicago, three a.m.

"You're right, it is cold." Louis' voice is hushed as if in appreciation for the atmosphere, his hand coming to rest on Harry's lower back. "Good thing we've got body heat. And blankets."

"You ought to find something scary to watch, then," Harry says. "So I have an excuse to cuddle in and steal all your warmth."

"Dunno if there's anything scary on this time of year." Louis gives Harry one of those smiles that makes shivers run through him, and it has nothing to do with the cold. "Do you need an excuse to cuddle up with me?"

Harry considers this. "A while ago, I'd've said yes. Of course."

"And now?" asks Louis. He looks honestly curious rather than mocking, his head tilted to the side just a little. A motion Harry used to find infuriating is now just another thing that Louis does.

"I don't think I need an excuse," Harry says. "But I might still want one, a bit."

"Then we can pretend it's colder than it is," says Louis decisively. "After all, I've got a delicate immune system. I think I can feel the illness coming on right now, in fact. You'd better hug me before I get sick."

Harry shakes his head. "You're ridiculous." He does, though, wrap his arms around Louis' middle. The television is still snowing away, the antennae seeking out a signal that just isn't there after 7PM.

"I like this show," Louis whispers, nosing up under Harry's jaw. "It's my favorite show. After Scooby, of course."

Harry shakes his head, a little shiver drawing up his spine, more from Louis' soft touch than the cold.

When Louis rests his hands over Harry's, it's like warmth spreads from that spot, pooling in Harry's stomach as though he's just had a cup of hot chocolate.

"I'm sorry about earlier," Louis murmurs. "I pushed you."

"You didn't." Harry's sure of that if nothing else. Louis had stopped immediately when Harry made it clear he was uncomfortable. "It was just too much. For me. But not your fault."

"I forget, sometimes, what life is like out there," Louis says. "For boys like you. Like us. I never forgot until you came here, or I thought I never did. But I do."

Harry doesn't really know what Louis is talking about, except he knows exactly what Louis is talking about. "Do you regret it?" he asks quietly.

"What?" Louis asks. "Being who I am? No. Never."

"Not that." Harry shakes his head, rearranging words in his head as he decides how to say what he wants. "Forgetting, I guess. What it's like."

Louis is quiet for a moment, playing with the ends of Harry's hair. "I never forget everything. There are parts of the world that if I forget, I've lost my reason to stay."

"So you'd rather forget here than not forget out there?"

Louis brow creases. "I guess so. I'm a bit confused. I'm just saying, there are things that are more important to remember than how shitty people can treat you for who you want to kiss. At least for me."

"Yeah." Harry leans his head down on Louis' shoulder and watches the fuzzy screen. "Yeah, me too."

It’s all too soon too cold for them to get out to the root cellar, sneaky or otherwise. Even with blankets, it’s just too far underground, no heating system to keep them from freezing, though they give it a try until Louis almost gets frostbite on his balls.

The winter is beautiful, this far north, so different from the ones he experiences back in Virginia, alone unless he can manage a flight back home on short notice like he had last year or, more likely, when Liam takes pity and invites him along to his own family dinner. When he was in Chicago, he spent Christmas with the Family dog, and it wasn’t his worst one.

Harry has never seen a Christmas quite like this one. He's surprised they celebrate it, for one thing – instead of celebrating Louis Tomlinson Day or something; for all that he adores Louis, he's still aware that their way of life is not exactly textbook – and for another, it's amazing to see how grateful the looks on everyone's faces are when they open homemade, practical gifts.

He's surprised as well because of how grateful he feels, considering his gifts last Christmas, one of which was a dinner at the most expensive restaurant in town. This year he finds himself grinning over a jar of jam from Jesy, and he declares it the best gift he's ever received.

Lux is shrieking as she immediately clambers onto the wooden rocking horse that Tom and Niall carved, and both twins have matching sock-dolls from Jade. Perrie Princess receives nothing but hand-me-down baby clothes from Lou, but she and Zayn look delighted.

The day is for the family, but at night they all disperse into their separate factions: Niall and Zayn and Perrie off to do who knows what; Lou and Tom putting Lux to bed while Jade bundles the twins off with promises that the earlier they sleep, the earlier they'll be able to have toast with the lovely jam.

Harry had slipped away on his own, ducking into the coldest room in the house. It's beautiful in the winter like this, the glass sparkling with snowflakes that twinkle like the stars above them.

He's missed Christmas with his family before when he was undercover, but at least in Chicago there had been payphones from which he could make a quick call to wish Gemma and Ma a merry Christmas and happy New Year. For all they know this year, he might be dead.

And really, for all intents and purposes, _Harry_ might as well be. Harry is George now, and George just isn't Harry. Harry is rigid, intense, suspicious, gentrified. Lonely. 

But George is here. He's present. And he's in love.

"You disappeared," comes from behind him, vaguely accusing but mostly just jovial. Arms close around Harry's waist, a warm nose nuzzling his shoulder. "Thought you'd run off out into the snow. Try to catch snowflakes on your tongue."

Harry shakes his head, turning around in the circle of Louis' arms. "Why would I want to be anywhere but here?"

"I don't know." Louis is smiley and red in the face, his hands settling low on Harry's back. "I like it best when you're here."

Harry giggles and kisses Louis' bushy cheek. Zayn and Niall had made some intensely pungent fruit wine in a big jar in the top of the pantry, and Leigh-Anne had cooked it up hot with spices for anyone who wanted some with dinner. Apparently, Louis had partaken.

"Have you had a nice Christmas?" Louis asks, sliding one hand up over Harry's shoulder, then down his arm to press their palms together. With his other arm still settled around Harry's waist, he leads them into a slow, swaying dance, their faces close together.

Harry nods, and says honestly, "Probably the best I've ever had."

"Only probably?"

"Well, when I was six, I got a green bicycle."

Louis laughs. "I'll paint Niall green, and let you ride him. That's almost the same, isn't it?"

"No, thank you." Harry kisses Louis' nose. "I'd prefer only riding you."

"I'd prefer that as well." Louis scrunches up his face and kisses Harry on the mouth, his breath fruity and alcoholic. Harry's lips tingle when Louis' lips move away. "I don't know if his leg could take it, anyway."

Harry snorts. "Are you saying I'm heavy?"

"Not at all." Louis smiles at him, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. "I'm saying that you give a man quite the ride."

He's still waltzing Harry slowly, but they've almost stopped moving, turning on the spot in the center of the chill glass room. The rest of the house has gone silent except the soft creaks of an old house settling in the cold.

"It's been a really good Christmas," says Harry. He presses his cheek to Louis', breathing in the smells of the day, spicy and fruity and pine, Louis, and Jade's makeshift perfume made from mint, and dinner, and Louis, and Louis, and Louis.

Louis doesn't say anything, just presses their mouths together even as his hands gather up around Harry's hips again and they find their way to the floor.

At this point, Harry is more than used to conducting these sorts of affairs on the floor. Beds are much more comfortable, but floors are more common, and sturdy, and here, so he doesn't really care.

This floor is freezing cold, though, because the glass all around them lets in the temperature as well as the panoramic view of black sky and stars upon stars.

"I'm cold," says Harry, even as he lifts his chin in order to let Louis kiss him there as well. "It's winter."

Louis just laughs softly. "I'll warm you up." But there are knitted afghans in the corner, and he gamely crawls over to get one.

"Thanks, dear." Harry's never been a nickname person, but Louis has changed all sorts of things about him. His life, that's the major one, but all the little parts of him as well. Sometimes he's not sure which parts are him and which parts are things he's picked up from Louis.

Louis drapes the blanket around Harry's shoulders like a cape, a cocoon for them to share, both wrapped up in it to complete the change.

"Better?" Louis asks, half on top of Harry and contributing just as much if not more warmth than the blanket is.

Harry winds his fingers through Louis' hair. "Best."

"Good." Louis pushes his face against Harry's throat. "You never told me what you were doing in here away from everyone. They've all gone to bed," he adds, "if you were wondering."

"I was just thinking," Harry says softly. He pushes Louis down onto his back so that Harry is hovering over him, able to look out the windows and ceiling and down at Louis' softly open face all at once.

"Thinking about what? You know I like hearing about what goes on in that pretty head of yours." Louis' tone is one of teasing affection, his hand stroking Harry's ribs.

"Just that it's nice here. We're all lucky to have you. I'm lucky to have you," he whispers.

Louis laughs a little, his eyes closing as his head rests back on the floor. "I think I'm luckier, to have all of you." He hesitates. "Especially you."

Harry just tucks his face down to kiss low beneath Louis' jaw, right where his scruffy hair fades away and stops tickling at Harry's lips.

"Can I have a real kiss?" Louis dips his head, mouth puckering. "I miss your lips. I'd like a visit from them."

"You had them four seconds ago!" Harry laughs. But he gamely kisses Louis' mouth again even as he budges up to reseat himself over Louis' hips, rolling down just enough for suggestion.

A suggestion that Louis is game for, if the way he presses down on Harry's back is any indication. Gentle encouragement. Just the way he likes it.

If Harry has learned anything concrete about Louis Tomlinson (like he was supposed to) then it's that he doesn't often tell people what to do. He just encourages them to choose what he wants.

It's a very useful skill to have, to be able to make a person think they've had an original idea when it's really what you wanted all along. Louis really could be a criminal mastermind. Except that Harry's only ever seen him use this ability to make peoples' lives better, to get the twins to go to bed, or to get Harry to try new sex things.

And all of them were things that the deep recesses of Harry's mind had imagined, back when he would only let himself imagine things very late at night and all alone. So it’s all for the best.

Louis only ever really wants what's best for people. And maybe that's Harry falling into his trap, but maybe that's just Harry seeing what other people wouldn't understand. Nobody back at the office, anyway.

Not very many people out in the real world, either. Not in the world where people with jobs sitting at desks or ditto machines, smoking cigarette after cigarette, are tucking in their kids who thought they needed a $9.95 Brixblox playset or a Bugs Bunny novelty radio or Evel Knievel stunt bike to be happy after Christmas tonight, the news of the day surely something terrible out of...

Harry doesn't know where. For the first time in his life, he doesn't know what's on the news. Hell, he doesn't know who won the election last month.

And he doesn't care. Because here, none of that matters.

"I swear I wish I knew where you go off to when you get that look on your face." Louis smooths Harry's hair back. "Maybe you can take me there someday."

Harry swallows and nudges his nose against Louis'. "I don't think you'd like it there."

"I think I'd like anywhere as long as it was with you," replies Louis. Very sweet. If only he knew.

Sometimes, Harry tries to imagine what it would be like to have Louis in his real world. 

Suits and travel. Coffee and handlers.

He can't picture it. Louis in a suit, freshly shaved, smiling politely at people? He doesn't even dare think about what someone like Louis would do to someone like Liam. Louis would eat Liam alive.

And god, he'd never hear the end of it from Grimshaw. He and Louis are the two most stubborn people Harry's ever met in his life.

Best not to think about it. It'll never happen, anyway. Harry's deluded himself voluntarily enough to at least ignore the fact that it has to end, but if he lets himself think about how it's going to end, he won't be able to do it.

He eases up enough that he can look Louis right in the eyes before he murmurs, "Hey, I love you. Can you... just remember that?"

Louis' eyebrows hitch together slightly in the middle. "I don't think I like this place you go anymore," he declares.

"I'm serious!" Harry cuffs his shoulder. "I love you. Not like how everyone else here loves you, either, at least as far as I know. And if they do, then you've some explaining to do, mister, but. Really, I love you."

"Okay." Louis is smiling now, but he still looks slightly concerned as he touches Harry's cheek. "I love you too, boy. You know I do. Where's this coming from?"

"I didn't know you did. We've never said it before!"

"I say it all the time," Louis says with a laugh, tucking his hands into Harry's shirt. His fingers are cold.

"Yeah, but you say it _all the time_. I didn't know you meant it."

"I always mean it," Louis returns. He doesn't seem at all thunderstruck by Harry's revelation. "I always mean everything I say to you, don't you forget that."

He should tell.

Harry should tell him, tell everything.

But he can't.

"I – try," he offers, the closest he can. "I'm not used to telling the truth. But I am now."

"I know you are." Louis tips his fingers underneath Harry's chin. "I'm very good at being able to tell when people are lying to me."

Harry can't look at him anymore; he just can't. But he also can't look away, can't move away, so he kisses Louis instead and tries to pour it all into the kiss, all of the _I'm so sorry_ and the _I don't know what's coming anymore_ and the _I'll find a way_.

Even if he knows it's just his own mind answering, he likes to think that Louis' kiss back says _I know. It's okay_.

He's back on Louis' hips again, shifting and feeling Louis get harder beneath him.

"You're in a mood," says Louis, breathless and pressing back up against Harry. "Freezing temperatures get your rocks off?"

Harry shakes his head. "Just you. And being happy. And being happy with you."

"Well," Louis murmurs, "I can think of worse belated birthday gifts."

Oh, god.

Louis thinks he's Jesus.

"Um," he says. His mind's blank. What's he supposed to say? Just when he thought Louis was just a little eccentric he goes and says something like that.

"I know I never mentioned it," Louis says, drawing little circles over Harry's sharp hipbones with the pads of his thumbs. "No one else in the family even knows, 'cept Zayn."

"Wait, you mean your actual birthday?" Please say yes. Please say yes. Please don't be an egomaniacal lunatic who thinks he's the second coming of Christ.

"Yes, the actual day I was expelled from a uterus. It was yesterday; I'm twenty-eight now. But if anyone asks, let's just say I'm twenty-five for the third time."

That's... something Harry hadn't known. It's actually one of the things he was supposed to find out, when and where Louis was born. He knows the when, now. And yet, the only thing that matters is – "You're older than me, then?"

"Yeah, young’un," Louis sighs. "I'm older than almost everyone here."

"You're twenty years older than your sisters?" Harry's brows furrow.

"There are two more," Louis says shortly. "In between." He swallows, and Harry watches his Adam's apple bob. "I don't want to talk about my geezer bones or my sisters when we're like this, though, if it's all the same to you."

"Oh, god, of course." He's learning things he needed to know. His work-brain is whirring while his dick-brain really wants someone's mouth on him.

Louis' eyes are still uncharacteristically sad as he runs his thumb along the shell of Harry's ear beneath the curly tangle of his too-long hair. "It's snowing; look."

Harry looks even though he'd rather just continue watching Louis. "It is." Outside is a whirling wonderland of white fluffy snow.

It's all around them, settling in iridescent winter silence on the roof and walls of their glass room. It's like a promise that everything happening inside is hidden from the rest of the world.

What happens here will stay here. What happens out there won't come here. And what Harry has here won't leave here.

He needs to have Louis _right now_.

"Can you have sex with me now?" he asks, settling himself more firmly in Louis' lap. Louis is still noticeably hard, if not as urgently as he was.

"No," Louis says petulantly, lying flat on the floor with his hands tucked behind his head. A little smile plays on his lips. "You can have sex with me. I'm the old birthday boy, so you get to do all the work."

"Creaky," teases Harry, tucking his own hands under Louis' shirt. Louis' skin is, as always, warm as a furnace, like a portable heater for Harry to carry around with him.

Even though the air is cold, they have each other and the thick knitted blanket, so Harry strips his shirt off. He likes the way it feels to have Louis' eyes on him even more than the feel of Louis' hands.

"Hello, there, you're a bit cold, aren't you?" Louis gives one of Harry's hard nipples a twist.

Harry hauls the afghan up around his shoulders again, falling over both himself and Louis like a set of folded wings. "Shush, you."

"Why don't you shush me?" Louis challenges with raised eyebrows.

Harry just smiles and leans down to kiss Louis again to distract him so he doesn't say anything smart while Harry's wriggling out of his jeans.

It works well. Louis is easily distracted by kisses.

And then he's naked, with a man he loves, surrounded by glass and snow.

It's really beautiful when Harry lets himself stop thinking. There's nothing in the world but the two of them and snowflakes. Harry can let himself believe that.

Louis must get caught up in it, too, the softness of it and the rounded edges and the not-quite-real but real-enoughness of it, because he blinks slowly as Harry undoes the long line of buttons down his flannel shirt and murmurs, "I love you too, you know."

Harry believes it. He believes it like this, just the two of them in the world.

When Harry pushes Louis' shirt off his shoulders, he lets his fingers trail and touch every strand of scar, every dark tattoo, every inch of skin. He bends to press his lips to the rough round remnants of gunshot wounds that he still can't explain, and Louis lets him, for once, just carding his fingers through Harry's hair.

"You okay?" he asks when Harry lingers there, his eyes closed.

Harry nods.

He will not be responsible for any more marks on Louis. He can't. He won't.

Louis' fingers card through Harry's hair, gently detangling the more wicked snarls his curls manage to get into when his hair gets long. He wonders if he should get a haircut. He wonders if he's allowed, here. He's never asked.

He lifts his face. "I just – " Harry shakes his head. "I don't know. I want everything. I want all of you."

"You think you want all of me," says Louis, with a head tilt. It's weird to Harry that he used to think those a power play. "Georgie-George, all of me isn't anything anybody should want."

Harry rubs his palm over the front of Louis' underwear, the heel of his hand rubbing firm and confident over the bulge of Louis' cock. He loves it. He loves _him_. "Why not?"

"Why?" counters Louis, his hips hitching up toward Harry's hand. He closes his eyes.

Harry tucks his hand under the warm cotton and finds warm skin and a tangle of hair instead, and he wraps his hand around the base of Louis' dick still inside the fabric, keeping hidden. "I want to understand why I feel like this about you."

"Babe," begins Louis, one eye squinting open. " _I_ don't understand why you feel this way about me. You're out of my league."

Harry keeps pumping his hand slowly over Louis' cock, and a small spot of wet smears up onto the white cotton. Harry exhales on a short groan, his own nerves all electrified with want, because he does, he wants; he wants Louis, all of him, he wants every inch and every fiber, wants more than his body knows how to handle. It feels like he's splitting out of his skin with it.

Louis can't tell him why he feels the way he feels but maybe Harry can figure it out for himself if he can just find a way to get to the parts of Louis that he keeps hidden.

"I want to feel like... I want to know I deserve it," Harry says. "What I'll get. For feeling like this about you."

"What are you talking about, George?" Both of Louis' eyes are open. He's frowning.

Harry just shakes his head. Stupid, stupid. He runs his thumb over the head of Louis' cock and the slide of salt come against his skin is intoxicating. "Nothing. It's just Christmas."

"It is Christmas," agrees Louis slowly. He shivers, tracing Harry's stomach muscles with one hand. "You say some weird things sometimes."

Harry finally pulls Louis' briefs down from his hips, and he has to bite his lip at the sight of Louis' red, curved cock. He had never, ever known want like this before Louis, never even known that people _could_ want someone this badly.

He's not sure if it's a good feeling. At the moment, it's still scary, but it's also freeing. In a lot of ways.

Louis reaches up and touches his own thumb to the corner of Harry's lip. "You alright there, love? You're actually drooling a bit."

Harry is pretty positive the noise he makes isn't a sexy noise. He gives Louis' thumb a quick lick, looking at him suggestively through his eyelashes.

He laughs a wild, breathless laugh. "I didn't know it could be like this, until you. Any of it. Just – oh my god, please, I just – I need all of it, Louis. I need all of you."

"You've got all of me that matters," Louis says, but Harry knows his expressions well enough by now to know what it looks like when Louis' thoughts are whirling a million miles an hour behind his eyes.

Harry shakes his head, feeling like he's falling, freewheeling, as he shucks his own pants. He's so hard it aches.

"Come here," Louis urges, one hand gripping Harry's shoulder where it starts to curve up into his neck. "Come up here a second."

Harry scrambles to obey.

Louis gets an arm around Harry's waist, and the other around his back to cup the back of his neck, and he kisses Harry in short, deep presses of his lips that suck all the air from Harry's lungs but make the noise in his head buzz more quietly.

Louis kisses Harry between the eyes. "You have me," he murmurs. "I promise. And I have you, right, George?"

"You do." If Harry had any way of refuting that statement, well, he figures he could at least do it in his own head. He has nothing. He just has Louis. He swallows. "I promise."

"Then nothing else matters." Louis' forehead presses against Harry's. "Right? It's you and me."

Harry nods, kissing Louis' neck. He still feels feverish, but it's centered now, all of the heat pressing into the slide of his chest against Louis'.

"That's good." Louis' voice is a quiet rumble against Harry's lips. "We're so good, aren't we?"

Harry nods, rocking his hips down against Louis', pushing their swollen cocks together.

Louis is much better at making sexy sounds than Harry is. He slides his hands down to Harry's hips and encourages him to do the same thing again, pushing down.

"That's it," he murmurs. "You got it. You've got me."

And that's the whole point, isn't it? This whole thing, this whole mission, the whole point was for Harry to get Louis. He doesn't think that this was what Liam had in mind when he advised Harry to get him however possible.

Harry closes his eyes and presses his forehead against Louis' neck, just over the steady thumping of his vein, as Louis' hands stroke purposefully over Harry's bum.

"Please?" Harry whispers. He's gradually adjusted the way 'George' acts, the way he responds to things, but Louis still gets a fond smile whenever Harry is unnecessarily polite.

Louis' mouth is hot when he kisses the corner of Harry's ear. "I should be saying that to you. You're gonna ride me nice, aren't you?"

Harry flushes with heat, going pink to his cheekbones.

"I know, you haven't done it like that yet," Louis murmurs. "But that's what I want. Do you want that, too?"

It seems dirtier this way, just from the sound of it, the word itself: ride. Harry will be doing the work, riding himself down on Louis' cock, making a spectacle of himself for Louis to see.

"Yeah, I want that, too," says Harry.

And he does; he does want that. He wants Louis to see everything that he can give.

"Wait, wait, wait," says Louis, which is about the last thing Harry wants to do. Louis flops backwards again, stretching his arm out as far as it will go underneath the sofa.

Harry just keeps rolling their hips together, keeping himself right on the precipice.

"There we go." Louis sounds breathless, and he retracts his arm, clutching a familiar blue-labeled tub of what appears to be petroleum jelly. He holds it up in triumph.

He winks at Harry. "I hoped we could have some time in here alone tonight. I missed celebrating my birthdays."

"We should've made a special cake." Harry touches Louis' collarbone, traces the delicate line of it. "With candles."

"I don't need candles," Louis says dismissively. "Just need you."

Harry feels giddy inside. "Then have me," he suggests, draping his arms over Louis' shoulders.

Louis dips two fingers into the petroleum jelly and kisses the side of Harry's face again. "I plan to."

To muffle his laughter, pure happiness tumbling out of his mouth, Harry has to bite down on Louis' shoulder, hard enough that Louis grunts.

Louis rubs a slick fingertip over Harry's hole, and the Vaseline is cold. "You're so spun up, love. Just breathe."

"I am breathing." Barely, at this point, but it still counts. He's getting air in and out of his lungs, it's just that the air comes in when he has to breathe in order to get the air that he'll just let out on a laugh.

He's so sunk.

He's so in love.

"Silly." Louis mouths at the side of Harry's neck, barely-there nibbles as he works his fingers inside.

It's so easy, to let Louis in.

He lets Louis in everywhere, in ways he's never let anybody else in. In ways he doubts he'd ever let anybody else in again.

"You're it for me," Harry whispers.

Louis is weird and secretive and loud and obnoxious and wonderfully perfectly Harry's, and Harry is wonderfully perfectly his, and he is wonderfully, perfectly screwed in more ways than one.

Louis just nudges at Harry's nose with his own until Harry turns his face so they can kiss, clinging, a strand of wet connecting their mouths for a moment after he's pulled away again.

And then he just winks, crooking his finger deep inside Harry, and says, "Jesy will be disappointed. No more free love around here, then. Everyone paired off."

A tension in Harry's bones relaxes. No matter how much he'd hoped, part of him was still afraid that Louis was going to tell him that he wasn't allowed to have this.

It's unfathomable, going back to the way he was before Louis.

He doesn't want to think about it. All he wants is this.

Louis has two fingers inside Harry, and it's wonderful and weird and so, so good. Harry arches, ruts back against Louis' hand.

"Do that again," Louis instructs, his fingers twisting as they delve inside again. "Just one more time, for me."

Harry groans, pushing back against Louis' hand, his chest flushing pink.

"Ready?" Louis asks, his slick fingers leaving, and Harry feels empty. It's not a feeling he enjoys.

He nods, shifting on Louis' hips.

And then Louis is hard and newly slicked up and the perfect size, held steady so that Harry can sink down as far as he can go, and it feels more deep than Louis' ever been inside him.

He feels bigger this way, and even though when Louis is fucking him, he can slide in like going home, Harry moves slowly, bracing his hands on Louis' chest, opening inch by inch.

Louis feels a little like a statue, all his muscles stiff with the effort of holding still, not pushing up against Harry. It makes Harry feel powerful.

Once Louis doesn't need to hold his cock anymore, both of his hands rest on Harry's hips, his thumbs caressing circles over the wings of bone.

"Fuck," he says, plain and simple, looking up at Harry's face like he doesn't believe something that feels so good can be real. Harry can relate. He's looking back at Louis the same way.

"I love this," Harry whispers, rocking to seat Louis more deeply inside him. He feels drunk, even though he isn't; his words come out slurred. "I don't know how I lived without it. Love when you're in me. Want it all the time."

"Might get a bit awkward at the dinner table," Louis murmurs. "Or not. You know Perrie'd love it."

Harry tries to laugh, but it comes out as a soft, breathy groan.

He's doing a lot of the work but Louis isn't a passive participant. His hands are everywhere, Harry's dick and stomach and ribs and thighs, and Harry's hamstrings are burning but Louis' fingers smooth over them and it's like everything fades to a tingle.

Louis reaches up to hold Harry's hair out of his face. "Can you really move for me now?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I can." Harry has to lean back to get the angle right, but when he does, he lifts off of Louis and drops back down.

It punches a breath from his throat.

Louis isn't unaffected either, a strangled noise coming from his mouth like he's forgotten how to get air into his lungs.

As Harry lifts and falls, taking Louis into him again and again, his thighs stretching and burning, Louis braces his feet flat on the floor and starts pushing back.

It really is deeper than he's ever gotten before, and just as Harry feels there's no way Louis can get deeper, he does, fucking into Harry in these deep slow thrusts that make sparks go off behind Harry's eyes.

Harry feels taken apart, groaning as he arches and collapses forward onto Louis' chest, pushing back instead of down, letting his teeth latch onto the tattoo at Louis' clavicle.

He likes it when he can make Louis feel as good as Louis makes him feel. When he can tell he's done something Louis likes, whether it's by the sound of his breath or a built up noise in the back of his throat.

Louis' lips brush up against Harry's ear. "You're amazing, George."

It nearly comes out of Harry's mouth. He almost just says, 'My name's Harry, call me Harry.' He has to actually bite his tongue in order to keep it back.

He bites harder at Louis' chest instead, begging him to just – know.

Know that he's Harry, know that he's everything else he's ever said and that's all that matters anymore. He's Harry and he's Louis'.

He feels like he's been more himself around Louis than he's been around anybody else, really. Maybe he's going by a different name, but who he is right now is all he's ever been too afraid to be.

Vulnerable.

He's given Louis power over him and he knows – if Louis was who they said he was, Louis would've used it against him. He hasn't.

But he's still got Louis inside him, in every way, spinning his thoughts and shaping him new.

Harry just knows that he feels more alive than he's ever felt before, and that's all down to Louis.

"I love you," he chokes.

"Shh, shh," Louis murmurs, his mouth tipped up next to Harry's ear. "I love you too. You know I do."

Harry shudders, a dry sob burying itself in the side of Louis' arm.

"That's it, that's it, that's it," mutters Louis, the knuckles of one hand brushing up against where Harry is hard and leaking between them.

It's entirely too much. It isn't supposed to be like this; it _can't_ be, the way it feels, the intensity of what it means to love someone and really let them in. If this is what it feels like to fully be a part of something, Harry can understand every person he's ever investigated, every person he's thought delusional, every person he's looked down his nose on entirely anew. He is swallowed up by what he feels for Louis. Maybe he just _is_ George, now.

Maybe he's whatever Louis has made of him. Maybe that's what happens when you let Louis in: he changes all the parts of you that you thought couldn't be changed.

Maybe that's just... becoming yourself.

Whatever it is, Harry likes himself better this way.

"Please, please," he murmurs, lips moving more to touch Louis' skin than to make sound. "Please, please, Louis."

"I'll make you feel good," Louis promises. "So good, George. Better than you've ever felt."

Harry nods, even as the ghosts of tears prick at the corners of his eyes because – he can be George. He can just _be_ George. That's all he has to do, and Louis will love him this much.

Louis' hand wrapping around him is a relief and a torture all at once, his palm rough and warm and just the right amount of pressure.

Harry's knees spread wider.

Whenever he's with Louis, he has the most intense orgasms he can ever recall having. He doesn't know if it's to do with having sex with someone you care about this much or if Louis is just that good. It might be both.

He can't breathe. He can't think. All he can do is groan and gasp and beg, babbling, his torn, blunt fingernails pulling at Louis' skin.

Louis is mumbling something under his breath but Harry can't hear it over the rushing in his ears.

He doesn't even know whether Louis has come yet. He doesn't even know if he himself has _stopped_.

The next thing he's aware of aside from bright flashes of color and sparks in his nerves is Louis kissing his forehead with warm, dry lips.

Harry wraps his stone arms around Louis' neck, murmuring.

"Good to have you back." Louis carefully helps Harry off of his lap, but doesn't move him far, keeping his arms securely around him. "You were stuck inside your head for a minute."

Harry just blinks at Louis, faces soft in the blue moonlight streaming through the glass windows around the heavily falling drops of snow.

Louis surpasses good-looking when he's like this, loose-limbed and relaxed, the smile on his face just for Harry.

But Harry has never seen Louis' face this open, this quiet. He looks newly content, and not just satisfied.

"You look happy," Harry says, touching one feathery flyaway edge of Louis' hair.

"I am," Louis says, and he sounds amazed, like he hadn't expected that to be the truth. "I am happy."

"Good. You deserve to be happy." Harry shifts himself, his legs stretching out beside Louis as he rests on Louis' chest.

Louis just runs his fingers through Harry's hair. "It's been a really – a really long time coming since I was actually happy."

"I thought you were happy with your family?" He's not prying. This isn't a job anymore, and it's been a poor excuse for one since the get-go.

"I am," Louis agrees. "But I've... not always been happy with myself. And if I had the choice..." he trails off, shaking his head. "D'you know how our family started? Did anyone ever tell you?"

"No," says Harry quietly. "I don't think any of them would do that."

Louis kisses Harry's eyebrow. It's strange, but feels right.

"It was a few years ago," says Louis. Harry doesn't move. He barely even breathes. This is what he's been trying to figure out for five months.

And now, he doesn't even want it.

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	10. Chapter Ten

"You don't have to tell me." Harry kisses his chest. "It's your family. Your business."

"It's our family," Louis corrects softly. "Because you're mine and I'm yours."

Harry has to hide his face, but he can't hide his smile, pressed against Louis' skin.

"I don't know where to start," Louis murmurs, and he pulls the blankets up around himself and Harry, cocooning them away from the world.

"Wherever you want to." Harry leans up to kiss Louis. "We've got time."

He nuzzles beneath Louis' chin. "We have forever, if you want."

Louis laughs, and Harry can feel the rumble of it. "I do want. Thought that was a little obvious."

Harry feels like giggling, like crying. He shivers and tucks himself closer to Louis.

"I wasn't born here," says Louis suddenly. His throat bobs on a swallow. "Here – New Hampshire, here. I didn't grow up here."

He could have been born on the moon for all it matters to Harry, so long as Louis still grew up to be the man he's lying with now. He could have been born in Cuba or China or Russia, and Harry wouldn't care.

"I was born in Connecticut. Me and the twins," and Louis hesitates before he continues, "and my two other sisters. Lottie. Felicite. Half-sisters, I guess, but I love them the same."

Harry smudges his cheek along the flat of Louis' chest and pulls the blanket up over their legs. It's cold, just glass between them and the snow. "Why didn't they come with you?"

"They're back at home with my mother. And my stepfather." Louis' chin settles on Harry's head, his fingers tight around his waist. "I haven't seen them in... a long time. We've only spoken through letters, or when I can get into town to take a phone call."

If Harry has learned anything from interrogations, it's that people will offer more if you give them silence rather than ask questions or beg or threaten. Harry isn't interrogating Louis (even though he should be) – but he wants to know. Everything that Louis is willing to give, every inch he's willing to open, Harry wants to crawl inside.

"I hate him," says Louis, in a short burst of emotion which he quells with a deep breath. "I hate that my mother is still in that house, and I hate that my little sisters are in that house. I hate that I couldn't bring all of them here."

_This is it_. Harry can feel it in his gut, under everything else, everything _real_ , that this is what he's been waiting months to hear. 

He doesn't want it anymore. He doesn't want to know what brought Louis here, because he doesn't want to have to leave.

"When the twins were born, my mom lied to him about it. Said they both died, but instead she just gave them to me. And then I ran." Louis makes an angry sound, his fingers interwoven with Harry's. "I ran, and I left her there with him."

Harry doesn't really know what to do with that. "Why? Why would she – how did you feed them?"

"Formula," says Louis. "There are loads on the market, and it's not as good for them as mother's milk, but it's all I could give them."

"Oh." That doesn't really answer Harry's question. Somehow baby-stealing just doesn't add up to the Louis that he's come to know, the Louis he _expects_ now. It's the Louis he'd expected months ago, and that sits like soap in his stomach.

"I couldn't... they needed to grow up somewhere better," Louis mutters. "And I try so hard with them. He beats them," Louis explains, his voice so soft and terse that his lips hardly move. Even lying on his chest, Harry can hardly hear him. "My mom and Fizzy, that's Felicite, and Lottie."

"Oh," Harry says again. He doesn't know what to think. There's right, and there's wrong, but what's he supposed to do when what's wrong might be the only way to do what's right? How is his moral compass supposed to gauge that?

"When I came back, she was already nine months, but she looked worse than I did."

"Came back from where?" Harry asks gently. He doesn't want to interrupt Louis, lest he close himself off again. He feels like this is important for Louis to say, more than it's important for Harry to hear.

"I was in Cambodia," Louis mutters. "Over it, really. Until we weren't. Zayn was there with me, and we got sent home together. It was March of '69, maybe two weeks before the twins were born."

"And you got back in time for the birth? Were you excited?" Harry asks, keeping his voice quiet and encouraging.

"Well, I never knew they were coming until I got back," Louis says. "It was sort of a coincidence. Kind of a big part of why I believe things happen for a reason. I didn't really want to come back, you know, it's... I don't know whether you've served, but it's hard to think about coming back to a country that's made you... be what you've become. But they're good, you know? The girls. They're just good little souls."

"They are good. They're turned out really amazing, and if it's thanks to you then I don't think anybody better could've taken care of them," Harry says, and it's honest.

Louis' eyes soften at that, some of his manic tension gone. "I don't want you to think my mom's a bad mother. She'd've done right by them, too. She _did_."

"I'm sure she is, and she would have." Harry presses a kiss to Louis' neck. "But you've done really well with them."

"It was mostly luck," Louis says. "I don't really know what she'd've done with them if I hadn't come back. I don't like to think about it."

"It didn't happen," Harry murmurs. "You shouldn't think about could-have-beens. You'll drive yourself mad doing that."

Louis shrugs against the floor. "I guess you're right." He exhales. "I was injured – you've seen the holes I got in me. Erm, and some burns and stuff. But she was able to coach me through the delivery. She's a midwife," he clarifies. "All of it's just lucky. Her husband, my stepdad I guess, was at work. There was so much blood, it was probably easy to convince him something'd gone wrong."

"So you just said that they'd both died? He didn't want to... see?" Harry asks, swallowing. Dead kids make him nauseous, fake or otherwise.

"I don't think he probably cared," Louis says. His voice is hard again. "Two less mouths to feed, he was probably glad. And I'm sure he was glad when I just disappeared. He wasn't my father, and he never let me forget it."

Harry doesn't say anything, just touches Louis' shoulder, his fingers stroking soft and careful.

"I wanted to wait and take her and Lottie and Fizzy with me," Louis says, a protestation, like Harry's blamed him for something he never mentioned. "There just wasn't time."

"And you're only one man," says Harry. "Even with just the twins, it must have been hard."

"I was alright for a few days. We made it to New York, and that's where Zayn was. Perrie was still out in California, but he couldn't – didn't want to fly, for a while."

"Understandably." Harry licks his dry lips. "So you and Zayn took care of them then?"

"A little, but... it was sort of conspicuous, wasn't it, for two men to be taking these babies around. When Perrie was able to come back, it was easier. She just... pretended to be their mother for a while. We didn't want to raise them in the city, you know. It was too hard for Zayn to be there." He sighs. "And if they got to school, then we'd need birth certificates."

"Right, it would have been hard, wouldn't it?" Now, knowing him, Harry's shed most of his preconceived notions, but he did have them when he got here. He knows it would have been difficult for Zayn to be seen around a city with two white children. "Is that when you decided to come here?"

"It was Perrie's great-great-aunt's or something," Louis says, and smiles for the first time. "See? Everything happens for a reason."

"Looks like it." Harry's believing that more and more every day. "How did it become all of this, though? If it was just you and Perrie and Zayn?"

Louis eyes shift once. "Perrie knew Jesy. In the beginning of May she, erm. She got into a bit of trouble out in Palo Alto and needed somewhere to stay."

"She's really handy," Louis adds, as if Harry's never met Jesy. "It was a lot easier with her, too, so when she mentioned having some contacts who could use a place... it just made sense for Leigh-Anne to come along, too."

Harry's desperate to know more about Leigh-Anne, to know why she distrusts him so severely. It could be explained by the same reason she flinches at loud noises or raised voices, but Harry doesn't think it is.

"It's a big house," he replies in a mutter. "It makes sense to fill it, if you have to."

"It takes a village to raise a child," Louis agrees. "Let alone two."

"They're happy here," says Harry. "That's what matters most, isn't it? That they're happy and healthy?"

Louis nods, but his arms tighten around Harry's waist. "I feel so guilty, though. They look _just_ like Fizzy did at their age. They look like Mom around the eyes. I feel like I can never really be happy without betraying them, you know?"

"You have to look out for yourself; you have people here to take care of," Harry says softly. "You're allowed to be happy. It's not betraying them. That's why you left, isn't it? That's why you took them with you? So that you could all be happy?"

Louis' face is open and soft, the moonlight and shapes of snow reflecting against his face in a feather-like pattern, eyes glowing in the dark. In this half-light, his round, puckered bullet scars look angry and jagged. "I never thought I'd be happy. I just wanted everyone I love to be safe, and they're still not. I just keep waiting for something to go wrong, for... the wrong person to find us. But then you came, and it was so – " He licks his lip. "Right."

Something altogether unpleasant swoops in Harry's stomach, curling around his navel like a serpent waiting to strike. "It felt right for me too," he murmurs. "I don't know that I was ever really me before I came here."

The corners of Louis' eyes crinkle into smile lines and he tilts his chin to urge Harry into a kiss.

It's sweet, and slow, and it says the most genuine things Harry's ever heard.

Harry can't remember whether he was ever happy before Louis, either. He must have been when he was small; he liked having teddy bear picnics with Gemma and riding his green bicycle. But is liking things the same as being happy?

Harry thinks it might not be. He's started thinking in people rather than places, as though it's who you're with that defines where your home is rather than an address. He was born in Iowa, and it's been his home for most of his life, and back in Virginia, he has a comfortable bed with expensive sheets and fluffy pillows, but he's never felt more at home than right here with his head pillowed on a tattooed chest.

He's more _comfortable_ here. He doesn't need to make sure he flicks his eyes over the right people at the bar and that he doesn't look over the wrong ones. There's no pressure to keep his trousers pressed into seams so sharp they could cut.

Nobody asks him when he's planning on settling down. Nobody tells him they think it's time for him to get a haircut because it's touching his collar. Nobody tells him who he's supposed to love, or how he's supposed to live.

It's strange to think that he – agrees with Louis' mother, that this was the right choice for Daisy and Phoebe-Sunshine. They're the most honest people that Harry's ever seen, them and Lux, and it doesn't even occur to them that they _should_ know better than to be honest. No one's going to hurt their hearts here.

Nobody's going to hurt them at all here, not if they can help it. They're taught love and trust and hope, and only rarely see the seedy, painful raw emotions like greed or hate or anger.

And it's never over things that –

Harry still can't bring himself to think _things that don't matter_. It does matter that he loves Louis, and that anywhere else, he couldn't. And it does matter that Leigh-Anne flinches any time the shutters bang against the sides of the house, and it does matter that someone took a crowbar to Niall's knees.

Those things matter, even if they wouldn't have mattered to him before. Because he's changed, since he's been here. And it's for the better, even if it's made him notice the bad things in life more.

That must mean that he's happy. Because the things that make him sad or angry, they wouldn't have stuck out like this before.

He always thought that his job was making the world a better place.

But his life, his real life, is about as far from his life here as it could be.

He doesn't know if that means that he wasn't doing his job properly, or if it means that he was doing it too well. There are a lot of things he isn't sure of anymore.

But Louis was wrong – Harry does serve his country, and he knows exactly what Louis meant when he said that sometimes, it's hard to do that knowing what his country seems to think is right.

What could be more right than the look on Tom's face when he sees Lux and Lou?

Harry doesn't know. What he does know is that sometimes what's right isn't always what's legal, and sometimes what's legal isn't always right. He didn't come here knowing that, but it's something he's learned and he's pretty sure it's true.

Knowing that, though, makes his stomach tilt. Because he can never really go back again, to being the Harry he was before. Maybe he really _is_ George now.

He's George as long as he's still here, anyway. Might as well accept it and let it be what it's going to be.

He nudges Louis' chest with his nose. "You did the right thing. You always do."

Louis laughs, and one of his hands rubs George's back. "You have much more faith in me than I do," he says wryly.

"It's because I love you," Harry whispers. "I really do."

Louis kisses his head. He does that a lot, and it's not quite lost its shine yet for Harry, still gives him butterflies and always has. "And I'm a better man for it."

"You were already a good man," Harry says, and he means it. Louis might be the best man that he's ever met. He never expected that.

"Depends on who you're asking, I think." Louis smiles, and it's not quite sad.

"But that's how it is for all of us," Harry says. "Nobody is only good. Except maybe the littles."

"You're probably as close as they come," Louis says wistfully. "I can't imagine you being anything less than great."

Detroit washes over Harry in a red, loud haze.

"You'd be surprised," he says, as lightly as he can. "Why, I once forgot to thank someone for holding a door for me."

_"Go, go, go!" Harry pushed Liam through the door just before it blew off its hinges._

He shivers, then shakes the image out of his head. Not here. That's not here, and he is not that man.

"Well," Louis laughs, "That's in the past. Most of our rooms don't even have doors."

"Don't need them, do you? There's nobody to keep secrets from." That's a clear lie; there are secrets all over this house. But Harry's not supposed to know them.

"That's the goal," Louis agrees. "Every year we get a bit closer."

"How many years has it been?" Harry asks quietly. "The twins are seven? Eight?"

Louis nods. "The house was finally inhabitable on New Year's, 1971. Fresh start all around."

"A celebration in more way than one." Harry tries on a smile and it fits. "I've always wanted a fresh start."

"You can always have one with me," Louis says. "You can be whatever George you want, and I'll love you."

Harry turns his face toward Louis' neck and hugs him, mostly because he can't stand himself when he's looking at Louis, saying all that when Harry's not any sort of George at all.

"Happy birthday," he murmurs. "It's a new year for you."

"Another year over, and a new one just begun," Louis says quietly. "Let's hope it's a good one, hey?"

If it's a year that Harry can spend here, it will be good. But it's been five months already, and he hasn't checked in with Liam in weeks.

Most likely, this is the only new year Harry will ring in with these people. Most likely, this arrangement won't even last until the summer.

"Let's hope it's a good one," he softly agrees.

* * *

January passes in a literal hail of bad weather. The tiny ice stones buffet the house and clink ominously against Jesy’s wind chimes on the porch, but the windows manage to hold. The house is cold enough most mornings that their breath puffs in front of them as they wake up. Slowly over each day, though, it warms with the baking of bread and stoking of logs in old wood-burning stoves. It isn’t quite comfortable, but it’s cozy.

The first of February lights slowly and stays dim, the sky a woolly white with impending snow.

In a lot of ways, it's the same as the day before had been, and the day before that. But even as Harry shivers and pulls his sweater more tightly around him, he's smiling, mixed emotions in his belly.

Arms wind around his waist as Louis nuzzles his face between Harry's shoulder blades. "You're awake early."

"Hard to tell when the weather's like this," comments Harry, leaning back to rest against him. "Sometimes it seems like night all day."

"I wish we could just repeat last night all day," Louis whispers, his lips soft and suggestive against the curve of Harry's ear.

He shivers and settles his hands over Louis'. "We could," he says. "Lock the door and ignore the knocking."

"If only I'd thought ahead to predict you and built any locks," Louis grumbles. He says it like he really could have and it's a legitimate complaint, which makes Harry laugh and turn to kiss whatever of Louis he can reach. Forehead, probably.

"Why're you up so early, then?" Louis prods once Harry's satisfied with his kisses. "You made it cold." After a moment, he adds, "and you looked upset, before."

"I'm not upset," Harry assures him. "Just chilly. I don't want to go out to the well to get water, but it's my turn to make breakfast. I wish I had boots."

"I'd let you borrow mine, but I doubt they'd fit." Louis frowns thoughtfully. "Can't be here in the winter without boots. We'll find you some."

Harry still doesn't know how Louis acquires all of these things he says he'll "find," but somehow, he always delivers. It takes him less time when it's something for the children than for anyone else, but he's never once forgotten to pick up a packet of paper or some canned peas or a new-old pair of jeans when he goes... wherever it is he goes and does whatever he does.

"It's not so bad. I can always warm up by the fire once I've come back in." Harry sighs, pressing his face to Louis' neck. Louis is always warm, no matter what, and it's one of the reasons Harry likes having him close. Of course, it's not the only reason.

He leaves a soft, open-mouthed kiss on the side of Louis' neck and then wraps his sweater tighter again before darting out through the kitchen's back door and down across the snowy yard to the well. The goats live in the barn this time of year, and he pauses just long enough to make sure their blankets are still over their little backs and their water trough hasn't frozen over. Molly bleats gratefully and licks his fingers before he goes.

The first of February. Now that he's not in front of Louis, he allows himself to frown again. He wouldn't have known the date at all if Jade wasn't so meticulous with her record keeping.

Harry is twenty-six years old. In a lot of ways, he feels younger today than he did ten years ago.

He knows why; there's only the one thing that's changed. He's here now. He's been here for six months and he feels better than he's felt since he was a teenager.

Even his back hurts less, like the weight lifted from his shoulders were a physical thing.

all he knows, it's in his head, and everything's exactly the same as it was except he's that bit less lonely. Which doesn't make sense in itself – back home, he'd had Liam and Nick and Gemma and his parents and friends, he'd had friends.

But here he has Louis.

He can roll over in the middle of the night and whisper any thought to Louis, and Louis won't judge him for any of them, won't say that he's stupid. He won't throw dull facts in response to any of Harry's quieter late-night questions, either, and instead indulges him on wonderings about the stars and dinosaurs and faraway places and whatever else Harry wants to know without having to find out.

He doesn't have Louis, back at home. To be honest, he doesn't have home back at home.

But he does have heat. When he staggers back into the house, his hands barely unfurl from the handles of the water buckets.

"And gloves," Louis says decisively, taking Harry's hands between his own and vigorously rubbing.

"Gloves would be nice," Harry agrees, letting the warmth of Louis' breath make his skin prickle.

"You go sit by the fire until you thaw. Breakfast can wait a few minutes." Louis ushers Harry toward the flicker of the logs, a warmth that washes over him once he's within a few feet.

He sighs happily and lies right down on the floor, basking like a cat in a spot of sunshine.

Louis pets through his hair as though he's seeing the same similarities. "I'll put the water on to boil," he says, soft and amused. "Need anything else?"

Harry grins and closes his eyes. "Just a birthday kiss, I think."

Louis has a hand settled on Harry's chest and is already leaning down, from what Harry can tell, when he pauses. "Birthday?" he asks.

Harry nods as best he can while still craning up for a kiss. "First of February."

"You didn't mention!" Louis manages outrage even as he presses his lips against Harry's for a quick peck. "I had no idea it was your birthday today, why didn't you say anything before now?"

"You didn't mention yours," Harry protests.

Louis waves a dismissive hand. "It'd just take away from Christmas, and I don't care much, anyway. I'd rather not think about getting older. You're still young and spry and you should be excited about your birthday."

Harry laughs. "I'm excited to keep all my fingers despite the cold. And I'm excited for oatmeal. Does that count?"

"No," says Louis, sullen. "What do you want for dinner? If we have it, we'll make it."

Harry begins to tick through the pantry's contents in his mind, but Louis shakes his head.

"No, no, no. Whatever you want. I'll make it work. I have to get you boots, anyhow."

"It's freezing," Harry protests. "It's not that important. Whatever we have is just fine, promise."

Louis keeps petting Harry's hair. "I want to do something nice for you. Let me, please."

Harry sighs. It's so hard for him to say no to that tone of voice from Louis, sweet and earnest. He's sure Louis knows it, too.

"Alright," Harry sighs. "If we could get chicken, I'd like chicken. And biscuits, but I'll make those, 'cause no one else can do it right."

"Chicken and biscuits," Louis mutters to himself with a nod. "We can pull that. Excellent."

He gets up after giving Harry's ribs a tickle, and when Harry pulls himself away from the warmth of the fire, Louis is already shouldering into the threadbare fringed jacket.

"Should I tell the others where you've gone?" Harry asks, stretching his arms above his head.

"I'll be back before anyone misses me," Louis says, but that isn't true. His presence in the house is what makes it a home.

"If you say so." Harry wraps his arms around Louis' shoulders, trying to give him as much warmth as he can before he leaves.

Louis kisses each of Harry's cheeks and his nose before finally meeting his lips. "Eat your oatmeal," he teases gently. "I'll shower you with presents when I return."

"Almost as old as you now," Harry replies, tucking his hands into the sides of Louis' jacket.

Louis wrinkles his nose. "I'll have to trade you in for a newer model one of these days."

With that, he disappears into the swirling snow.

Harry turns back to the kitchen with a sigh. There's breakfast to be getting on with, and his stomach's starting to rumble.

When he reaches the kitchen, the water is boiling merrily on the stove and Lou is holding Lux near the burners, letting her warm her small hands in the white steam rising from the big soup pot.

"I didn't hear you get up," says Harry, surprised. "Good morning."

Lou kisses his cheek first, then Lux, parroting "Goo'moaring" in a stuffy-nosed little mew.

"Still stuffy?" Harry asks, giving her a sympathetic tickle under the chin. "Been a few days, hasn't it?"

Lux nods and wipes her nose on the back of her wrist. "Cold is yucky."

"The steam should help with the stuffiness at least." Harry rests the back of his hand against Lux's forehead. "Not much else to do but wait it out."

"I just hope it doesn't spread," Lou says, sounding weary. "I've been trying to keep out of everyone's way until she's all better, but I have been getting a little lonely."

"I think it's a bit inevitable, living in such close quarters." Harry gives her a bit of a hug from the side. "I'd be honored to catch cold from Miss Lux."

Lux coos, waving her hands in the steam. "Odemeal?"

"I'll help," Harry says, pecking Lou on the cheek. "Where do you want me?"

"Ah-ah, I think it's your turn, sneaky," Lou says. "Lux and I want a show while you make the oatmeal. Sing that song she likes."

"She likes all the songs," Harry says wryly. "I don't think I've ever had a bad response."

"Well, she's an easy audience," Lou agrees. "Sing the one _I_ like, then."

Harry smiles, digging through the cupboard for the oatmeal as he drops easily into the melody.

He suspects that Lou likes the Stevie Wonder tune because it's about a baby daughter – they both hum along whenever he sings it, although neither of them has any sense of pitch.

Lux likes most of the things he sings; he wasn't exaggerating. She tries, often, to sing along when he does the Stones, and it's one of the funniest things he's ever seen.

Every once in a while, Harry will catch Louis singing one of his radio songs to himself while he completes some task or another, but whenever Harry mentions that Louis has a lovely voice, he just goes red and denies it.

He does, though. His voice is just as sweet and honest as he pretends he isn't.

The oats that Niall had with him when he arrived are much better than the oatmeal Harry grew used to in Washington, but they also take nearly an hour to cook. He's probably kept his muscles strong just by standing at the stove to stir them two mornings a week.

It means he can get through entire albums of material in one sitting, and Lou and Lux stay there the whole time, sometimes singing along, sometimes just listening. Harry's grown out of his initial embarrassment about it.

He can't sing like Perrie or Zayn or Jade, but he can certainly hold his own. He has a rockier tone anyway, and fancies himself a fair impersonator of Mick Jagger.

Whether that's something to be proud of, well, he's sure everybody has their own opinion on that.

Lux is much cheerier by the time the oatmeal hits the table, chiming in on the "woo-woo!"s as Harry and Lou sing "Sympathy for the Devil" for the third time in a morning.

Harry does gift her a kiss on the head, and that seems to please her, as well. She claps, at least; though, thinking about it, clapping is one of her favorite activities.

Everyone else trickles into the kitchen with their typical wintery languor and accepts the oatmeal with much less enthusiasm, although plenty of grace.

Harry thinks it tastes pretty good. He might be biased, and he might just be thinking ahead to dinner, if Louis manages to get everything alright. He has a knack for it.

"So," Zayn says after cleaning his bowl, the de facto leader when Louis is missing, "What is everyone doing today?"

"Cold," grumbles Daisy, her spoon clanking sullenly against the bottom of her bowl.

"I'm knitting booties," Perrie says, serene, smiling. She tweaks Phoebe's cheek. "Sunshine will help me, won'tcha?"

Phoebe-Sunshine has been looking a little more like rain since the weather's been so cold, but she seems to perk up a little at the thought of helping Perrie. "Yes," she declares. "I will help knit."

"Good." Perrie taps Phoebe's nose. "You can unwind the yarn."

Harry smirks down at his own empty bowl. Phoebe-Sunshine is who tangled it in the first place.

Everybody else has their assorted chores as well, though they're in the house, for the most part. Even the people who have boots and gloves don't want to brave the February frost outside.

The water rations in this cold only leave enough for cooking and two people's wash-rag baths each day, so the house smells increasingly musty and full of human smells, especially the big sleeping room. It isn't as sour as Harry would have thought before he were living in it.

Though he supposes that especially now, there's not much opportunity to sweat. The cold outside keeps everybody fairly chilly inside, as well, and the sweat they do work up is confined to the one room.

Tom keeps the pot-bellied stove in the front hall well-stocked with wood and the house eventually gets warm enough to feel cozy, the ice making cracking sounds at the windows.

It's Harry's job to watch Lux, and he thinks he does an admirable job, keeping her sniffling under one arm as they take a nice nap on the sofa closest to the stove. Lux is like a tiny, wriggly heater in addition to the one they're piling wood on.

He only knows when Louis arrives home because cold gusts through the open door and then warm lips press to his forehead, and then Lux's, as Louis' worn shoes shuffle off his feet.

"You're back," he mumbles, knuckling some of the grogginess from his eyes. "That didn't take long."

He doesn't actually know whether it took long or not; he spent most of the time Louis was away asleep, after all.

Louis shakes snow from his hair. A brown paper grocery sack is cradled in his arms. "Not very. Did everyone eat?"

"Yeah, we had oatmeal. It was nice. I think there's some left for you on the stove." Harry yawns, one arm still tucked snug around Lux to make sure she doesn't fall. He's pretty sure she's snotting all over his shirt.

Louis smiles down at him with soft eyes. "Thanks, love. How's she feeling today?"

"Still sniffling." Harry gives her back a rub. "She's young, though, so it shouldn't last too much longer. Doesn't have a fever, or anything."

"That's good." Louis nods. "I'm going to put this lot away. How long will it take to prepare, do you think?"

"Not too long." Harry stifles another yawn. Something about the weather makes him so tired these days. "It never takes longer than an hour when I've had it before."

"Swell. Well, if you want to keep napping, lazybones, you had some time, then."

"I was watching the little one," argues Harry. "S'my job and I'm good at it."

Lux promptly sneezes violently and a long spaghetti-string of snot connects her face to Harry's shirt as she pulls her head away, weepy.

Shushing her, Harry puts the shirt off as a loss, and uses the edge of it to wipe away any residue. Lux is still red-faced, her brow wrinkled with crying, but Harry carefully urges her head away from the damp place to rest on his shoulder instead.

"Poor little nose," Louis sighs. "Why don't we try some raspberry leaf tea, hmm? Might unclog her a little."

"The steam from the oats seemed to help while we were cooking them this morning," Harry agrees, shifting so that he can sit up. "Lou was worried she'd get everyone sick."

"Well, if she does, it's just a cold." Louis shrugs. "The only person I'd really worry about is Perrie."

"That's a good point," Harry says. He rubs Lux's back a little more, giving her a pat. She coughs. "We'll just have to do our best."

He carries her into the kitchen and Louis uses a little of their precious water to make some bright fuchsia tea. Lux practically sticks her whole face into her mug.

"A bit at a time, Luxie," Louis coaxes. He holds the bottom of the mug and pulls it back a little, holding it steady.

"Warm," she insists. Louis shakes his head, smiling at Harry.

Harry's seen Gemma and her husband look at each other that way before when Robbie or Greta did something silly.

It's jarring but in a nice way. Makes him feel warm in places the stove can't even touch.

After she's finished her warm drink, Lou reappears looking much more well-rested (and fairly more well-fucked) and takes Lux back. Louis gives her permission to use some water to give Lux a little bath.

He eyes Harry once she's left. "You might want to change," he says. "Looking a little..."

"Disgusting?" Harry fills in.

"Kinda like The Blob." Louis grins.

"Bet you'd still kiss me, though." Harry smiles right back at him, pulling his shirt off and balling it up. It's just cold enough for him to shiver.

"You wild hippie, half-naked in my kitchen." Louis doesn't even pretend to sound displeased.

"You know those long-haired weirdoes," Harry murmurs, leaning in close to get his kiss.

"They do barter for some weird shit," Louis informs.

“Like what?" Harry asks curiously. He's never been able to figure out what sorts of things Louis trades to get the things they need.

The edge of Louis' mouth curves up in a mischievous smile. "Just some handy things Tom and I whittle from time to time."

That really doesn't tell him much, but if Louis wanted him to know, he'd come out and say it.

"But!" Louis reaches into the sack, "I got you a chicken!"

He pulls out a chicken by its foot. Its clawed, bony foot, attached to the rest of the chicken, which at least doesn't have feathers, and Harry's grateful for that.

Harry tilts his head, surveying the naked chicken. It sort of looks like part of a Marx Brothers routine. "Thank you. I think. Is it rubber?"

"No, it's a chicken." Louis shakes it a little. "Just like you asked for. It'll work, right?"

"I guess so. I've never had one with the – head, and stuff. D'you think Zayn would like, empty... it out... for me?"

Louis looks thoughtful. "Probably. I'll ask him. He's good with that kind of thing, so long as it's not a pig."

"No, I wouldn't think so." Harry wouldn't be good about it with a chicken, even. Probably not even a fish.

"You look terrified," Louis says, obviously amused. "Have you never seen a chicken before? Why'd you ask for one, then?"

"Not with the head on but not with the – rest of... it! On!" Harry waves his hands. "This is a little traumatic! I'm used to chickens from the store."

"City boy," Louis says with affection. "Thought we'd cured you of that."

"Well, you know what they say," Harry says. "You can take a city boy out of the city, but he'll never be prepared for a naked chicken."

"Is that what they say? I think you're making that up." Louis laughs and settles the chicken back down in the bag. "I'll grab Zayn, you big baby."

"I can't take the heat, so I'm getting out of the kitchen!" Harry calls after him, and trots upstairs to put on a clean shirt. And avoid the giblets.

Thankfully, by the time he gets back from changing his shirt, and checking on Lux, who demands he stay and play with her, the chicken is no longer so difficult to look at.

It looks more or less like a store chicken, and the rest of what Louis' bought – two white onions, a lump of butter, and a box of Corn Flakes – are sitting beside it on the countertop.

"Are the Corn Flakes going in the chicken?" Harry asks, nonplussed.

Louis scratches his beard. "S'how my mom did it. Sometimes. Like a shake and bake."

"Huh. Never had it that way before." Harry knows better than to question a mother's chicken recipe. His own mother would probably hear from back in Iowa, and hitch-hike her way here to smack him round the back of the head.

"It's good." Louis' voice is very quiet. "But it's your birthday. I'll eat 'em for breakfast, instead."

"No, I'd like to try it. If you don't mind," Harry rushes to say. "Just because I've never had it doesn't mean I wouldn't like to."

Louis just bustles around to the pantry to start getting down the big jar of flour, but Harry can tell he's pleased. He thinks he can tell just from the backs of Louis' ears, and that's how he knows he's in love.

It's a nice feeling. Weird, but in a good way, and he thinks it's meant to be. When you start to get bubbly feelings in the put of your stomach over the backs of someone's ears, it's hard not to feel weird about it.

They aren't much bothered while they're cooking, although a few times the twins waltz in and demand for Louis's undivided audience.

He's good with them. Harry's known that for a while now, but it doesn't stop being good to see, the way he treats them like a big brother – like a father, in all the ways that matter – should.

Phoebe-Sunshine pokes at the chicken leg covered in cereal crumbs. "You made this before."

"I have," says Louis. "It's what George asked for, for dinner. You liked it last time, didn't you?"

"I don't remember," Phoebe-Sunshine says honestly. "I was really little. Like, six."

"Right, you were like six," Louis says. "That was a long time ago, wasn't it?"

Phoebe nods with great solemnity. "Much longer ago than when Daisy was six, right?"

"Much, much longer ago." Louis and Harry exchange amused looks. "It's chicken. You like chicken."

True to her Tomlinson roots, Phoebe-Sunshine just sets her chin with defiance and waltzes back out of the kitchen. It's more threatening than it should be.

Louis sighs. "When dinner comes she'll have decided she doesn't like chicken, actually, and her sister won't, either."

Harry nudges Louis' shoulder with his own. "More for the birthday boy, then. They can have oatmeal."

"And suddenly like chicken again. I like the way you think, my love." Louis pecks Harry on the cheek.

The table is full before dinner's even finished, the smell of baking chicken enough to rouse everyone on a cold winter's day.

"Special occasion?" Niall asks, sniffing his way into the kitchen.

Louis whirls around from the stove and sets a dish of flake mashed potato on the table. "It is our George's birthday!"

There's a general murmur of surprise, and then Perrie reaches around Niall to give Harry a smack on the arm.

"You didn't mention!" she exclaims, delighted.

"I didn't think it mattered," Harry says, blushing.

"Course it matters," Niall rebukes. "Tradition, isn't it? Thought you could get out of it?"

Harry shrugs and scratches his neck beneath his long, curly hair. "It didn't really occur to me."

Niall harrumphs at him and waggles his cane. Harry supposes that means he's an idiot.

He kisses the top of Niall's shaggy head and takes his seat at the place of pride at Louis' right hand.

"Is everybody here?" Louis asks, visibly counting heads. "I don't want anybody to miss out."

"Me!" Lux offers, waving both hands.

"Of course you're here, Miss Lux," Louis says. "Do you know whose birthday it is?"

"Me?"

"No, no, it's George's!" Louis exclaims. Everybody claps politely, except Lux, who continues clapping after everybody else has finished.

"So, who wants to start?" Louis asks.

"Me!" Lux says again, longsuffering.

Okay, Lux," Louis says seriously. "What do you like about George?"

Lux thinks very long and hard about this question, her little face screwed up as she considers.

"Ugs," she decides.

"Hugs, he's good at those," Louis agrees.

Lux claps again. She's very proud of herself.

"Let's just go around," Louis says. "Lou, you next."

"Hmm, what do I like about George?" Lou muses, tapping a finger to her chin like she has to think incredibly hard about it, and then smiling at him. "I like that he's always willing to help out even when he doesn't have to."

Harry goes pink and looks down at his plate. Somehow he'd been expecting a joke about his penis.

The sincerity in Lou's answer makes him feel, well, a little mushy. He feels it can only get worse, when there are still so many people to go.

He doesn't feel helpful, is the thing. He's just doing as much as anyone else here, isn't he?

Next to Lou is Tom, who takes his turn without any prompting. "I like that George tries his best even if he's no good at using a saw."

"I've got better!" Harry protests as everyone laughs.

"Whatever you say," says Tom. Harry _has_ gotten better, no matter what he says.

Under the table, Louis pats Harry's thigh in consolation. Before he can withdraw, Harry grabs Louis' wrist and keeps him there, touching.

He's already bracing himself for when it's Louis' turn. He's not sure what Louis is going to say, but he does know that he'll need to be prepared.

"I like the way George listens when the twins talk," is what Leigh-Anne offers.

He honestly hadn't expected her to be able to come up with something she likes about Harry, but she doesn't seem upset to have had to. He offers her a smile.

"He is good at listening," Daisy agrees. Phoebe-Sunshine nods exuberantly beside her, a bit of cornflake stuck to her lip.

"Did you two want to say anything else you liked about George?" Louis coaxes.

"I do!" Daisy raises her hand. "I like when he cooks dinner, and I like braiding his hair."

Harry touches the edge of one such braid, twisted with childish hands so it's lopsided and lumpy, but he'd left it in. He likes to fiddle with them while he's sitting by the fire to have something to do with his hands.

"Thank you, sweetpea," he says, sincere. "I like when you braid my hair, too."

"Me, too!" Phoebe yells. "I like when George reads to us!" She beams at him like the sunshine she's named after.

 

"Shh, quiet voices," says Louis, a finger to his lips. "I know it's very exciting."

"Sorry," Daisy whispers, and bites down on a chicken thigh with a great crunch.

Perrie pats her on the back before she gives her own response. "I like that George cares about everybody else's happiness," she says, decisively.

It might make Harry cry.

It's true, is the thing. He cares more about letting these people be happy than to be true to his real life, he cares more about their happiness than doing what might be right.

Because these people mean something to him. He loves them, and he thinks they love him, some of them. Most of them.

"I like," Zayn says slowly, polishing his glasses on his shirt, "I like that George seems to live wholly here. You know what I mean? He digs the here and now."

Zayn's right in more ways than he knows. Harry forgets, sometimes, that this isn't all there is. He finds himself thinking of this as his home, as the place where he is supposed to be.

It may as well be. This is the nicest birthday he's ever had, even though the compliments make his ears burn. He doesn't think anyone anywhere else would have such nice things to say about him.

That makes his thoughts grind to a screeching halt. Nowhere else does he think people could know him this well, could they say things about him that felt so good to hear and were also so true.

Gemma would say that she loves his dedication to his job, his country. That isn't true anymore, is it?

Liam would probably say the same thing, and it still wouldn't be true. He's changed, since he's been here, and now he is who he's become. He's not the person he was when he got here.

Mom would say that she loves what a good man Harry's become and how he would make some lucky woman a wonderful husband one day.

While that's also not true, it's never been true. Harry couldn't have done that to some poor woman. He wouldn't marry someone he doesn't love, and so he wouldn't have ever married.

His heart hurts, thinking of trying to explain that to Mom, trying to show her what life is like here and why it's better for him than the future she's surely still imagining.

He's not sure she would understand. She loves him and he knows that, but he's not sure she'd understand.

Harry doesn't know whether _anyone_ could understand how good Louis is. How perfect for him.

He doesn't even understand it. There's no way that anybody else could, even if he tried to explain it for a year.

"I like that George is thoughtful." Jade gifts Harry with a smile, and he wonders how he ever thought she was anything other than beautiful all the time.

He dips his head to thank her, his throat so dry that he knows if he tried to speak, it would only be a croak.

Jesy laughs and throws her head back, long hair spilling everywhere, breasts bouncing with mirth. "What _don't_ I like about George?"

The rest of the table laughs with her, and Louis prods, "Try one specific, babe. For me."

"Ah." Jesy sighs and rests her elbows on the table, looking over at Harry with soft eyes. "I like... that way George stands, with his toes in like a duck and his hands behind his back."

Harry has no idea what she's talking about, but Louis hums beside him in agreement.

No one's ever said anything about how Harry stands, at least since he was told off all the time for slouching at the Academy.

He’s started slouching again here, anyway. All that training gone to waste.

Maybe that's what Jesy means. He's never noticed how he stands – but he does know how she does, feet planted firm like she's a part of the Earth itself.

Maybe that's what she means.

Niall has his mouth twisted thoughtfully to the side. "I like that George never talks to you like he pities you," he says. It's the most serious Harry's seen him look. "He always just talks to you like you're a mate."

Harry grins at Niall, wet-eyed, and reaches across the table to pat his arm a few times.

Niall grumbles, but Harry can see the smile he's not hiding very well.

The only person left at the table is Louis, and Harry's heart is hammering a disco beat in his neck.

Louis looks at Harry, still holding his hand underneath the table. He clears his throat before he speaks. "I like the way George makes me feel like I could do anything and it'd be okay because I have him," he says softly. "Like I could rule the world."

Harry swallows.

And again.

And then again, because that pesky heart is still lodged firmly in his throat.

"Me, me, again!" Lux yells, breaking the mood. "I like Dorge uppy!"

"There are no agains at birthday dinner!" Louis says, and he at least sounds as choked up as Harry feels.

Harry just gets up and runs around the table to pick up Lux and give her a good throw full of squealing giggles, because he can't do anything else.

He's good at uppy. He can handle uppy, right now.

This has been the best birthday he has ever had, and he's so far from home, except, except. Maybe he's exactly where he's supposed to be. Maybe he is home, after all.

He bends down to kiss Lou when he returns Lux to her chair.

"Thank you," he whispers into her ear.

"Happy birthday," she says back, and her lips are soft on his cheek.

He continues down the line of people, hugs or cheek-kisses or both, in the case of Niall, who points to his cheek and demands that Harry give him one like everyone else.

"Your beard is so scratchy," Harry moans, rubbing his lips. "You're gonna cut my lips off."

"That's the price you pay," Niall says with no sympathy.

Harry laughs, still feeling weepy and wet inside his chest.

Niall kisses his cheek back, rubbing his beard on Harry's face as much as possible, and that helps a little.

When Harry gets closer to Louis again, Louis pushes back from the table and Harry sprawls right on his lap like an oversize puppy.

Louis even pets his hair nice and slow, a good scritch behind his ear.

"Happy birthday, lover," Louis whispers in Harry's ear. "Happy birthday, Georgie."

"Thank you," Harry murmurs back, closing his eyes and breathing in the smell of Louis. Home. "I love you."

The room empties loudly around them, everyone laughing and happy after a day that brightened with chicken from Louis' mother's recipe.

Harry doesn't think he's ever felt happier, belly full, Louis right there with him.

Louis asks softly when they're finally alone, the twins and Jesy singing as they wash dishes in the kitchen.

"The best birthday," Harry replies. It's not a lie, and he finds himself trying to think of the last time he _did_ actively lie to Louis.

Louis kisses him between the eyes. "Then we're even."

Eventually, the twins call for Louis. He kisses Harry between the eyes again and heads off dutifully to play dollhouse.

The last thing Harry's expecting when somebody taps his shoulder is to turn around and find Leigh-Anne standing there, shoulders back, chin up, her gaze cool as always.

"Oh!" Harry says. "Hi. Am I -- sorry, am I in your way?"

She smiles. She doesn't usually smile at him. "No," she says quietly. "I just wanted to talk to you for a second."

"Okay," Harry says gamely. This is interesting.

Her ams are held straight at her sides rather than fidgeting in her skirt, as Jade tends to do, or folded across her chest defensively. "I'm sorry," she says without preamble.

"For what?"

"You might have noticed that I haven't exactly been... thrilled, about you being here," she says. "I didn't make a secret of it, really."

Harry nods and scratches the back of his neck. "I did notice, yeah. You don't have to apologize for that. This was your home first."

"It's not that," Leigh says, which Harry's not expecting. "I mean, yes, I don't really like new people, but it's not _only_ that."

"Oh." Harry fiddles with a snarl in his hair.

"I'm not going to tell you my life story," Leigh says. "But you remind me of somebody, a pig I ran into when I lived in Detroit. Since you got here, all I can see when I look at you is him."

_Oh, god_.

That's _her_?

Now that he's looking for it, it's all too obvious. He remembers things about Detroit in flashes, bits and pieces that he's never wanted to put back together into a big picture.

There were mistakes made there, and none of the biggest were Harry's, but most of the time he considers having gone on the raid at all to be a mistake.

If Leigh-Anne was there, and it's looking likely that she was, he doesn't blame her for distrusting him. She should distrust him. He would, if he was her.

He wonders which part she saw.

When the door blast killed that eight-year-old.

When Parker, that fucking idiot, set fire to the arsenal and the gunpowder went off.

When Sykes wouldn't goddamn stop using that _word_.

Any one of those things and more would make her distrust valid. He's almost tempted to tell her that, except he isn't, at all. But he would deserve it.

"I'm sorry." It's all Harry can say. It's all that's honest.

Leigh waves it off. "Anyway, it was, it was unfair of me to judge you just because you remind me of him, and I shouldn't have."

It was fair. She was right. Harry owes her, owes her whole world, a bigger apology than he can ever hope to give.

"You at least deserved an explanation why," she continues, "so there it is."

Harry doesn't even know what to say. The outside world's caught up with him, poked a needle through the balloon of serenity in this house, and he doesn't even know how much she saw of his failure.

"Happy birthday," Leigh says quietly, nodding at him before she steps back and away, moving on now that the conversation has obviously been concluded.

It had been happy. But now all Harry can do is wonder when the next piece of reality will find its way to him here. And whether he can do anything to stop it.

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	11. Chapter Eleven

"Come on, little Daisy, stop fidgeting," Harry says. "You wanted to write a poem, so finish it up."

Daisy's sulking, her pencil gripped tightly in her hand as she glowers at Harry. "It's too hard," she whines. "Nothin' rhymes."

"Of course things rhyme," Harry says. "Phoebe-Sunshine! Give us a rhyme."

"No," she says, which doesn't rhyme at all. She's concentrating hard on her own poem. "I'm very busy."

"Catty hat," Lux offers, waving her stump of a pencil, eyes round.

"That's good, Luxie." Even if it's not a very sophisticated rhyme, at least parts of it rhyme. They have the same sounds.

Daisy still looks disgruntled. "It's too rainy outside for rhyming."

"It is rainy." Harry takes a look out the window where it's gray and dreary, and he knows the grass and dirt are being melded into a horrific muddy mess. He hopes that Louis will be able to get the truck back, if he comes back today at all. Even though he doesn't often hang around downstairs, it seems altogether too quiet without him.

He isn't in the root cellar, either. He'd told Harry that every once in a while, he'll head to the nearest town and sell some of their goods to markets and pawn shops in exchange for new wares they need, and it's definitely true, but yet... it rang false when he said it. Like that wasn't the real purpose of his drive.

When he hadn't come home by the time it got dark last night, Harry had nearly asked Zayn if he knew anything. Even if Zayn is consistently intimidating, Harry could tell that he was concerned as well last night when dinner'd passed and Louis' seat at the table had remained empty.

Everyone is off-kilter with Louis gone. Even the animals. Even the weather.

If he's not back by tonight, Harry'll ask Niall, who is generally more approachable while knowing a lot of the same things Zayn knows. This situation isn't normal. Harry's been here a long time now and Louis has never disappeared for this long.

"Dorge," Lux says plaintively, "Uppy-down, please."

"Just a second, Lux," Harry replies, giving her a strained smile. He taps a finger on Daisy's paper. "Try and get a few more words down while I'm with Lux," he suggests. "You love poems, I know you can."

Daisy rests her head on the table. "I miss Louis."

Harry swallows. "We all do, sweetie," he says. He gives her hair a gentle ruffle. "He'll be back soon."

"We never been without Louis this long," Phoebe-Sunshine says, her eyes filling with tears.

So it's not just Harry who's finding this odd. He's been here almost seven months; the twins have been here for seven _years_. This isn't normal. It's not like Louis to be away this long.

"Dorge!" Lux's face screws up pink. She wriggles desperately on her chair. "Uppy-down! Please!"

"Coming, coming!" Harry reassures, taking the two steps to Lux's seat and helping her from the chair, up and then down.

"Dankyu!" She runs off, yelling for Lou and help with the bathroom.

Harry sighs heavily and sits in Lux's abandoned chair. At least it isn't wet this time.

There's a scraping sound and then a slightly damp hand (he doesn't want to know) pats his cheek. "Don't be sad, George," coos Phoebe-Sunshine.

"We can be lonely together," offers Daisy, crowding into his lap.

"I'm not lonely," Harry sighs. He's very lonely. "You're supposed to be writing your poems."

"I can't find a rhyme for 'Louis,'" says Daisy, and her nose goes pink.

Harry drops a kiss to her head. "Chewy," he offers. "Gooey."

"Groovy," offers Phoebe-Sunshine.

"Not quite," Harry says, patting her head. "But it's a good try."

They're all deflated, and the twins are silent as they sit there. Harry doesn't try to get them to do their poems anymore. He just doesn't have the energy.

Louis being gone has sapped the house of its spirit.

Even Lux, when she gets back from her potty break, has lost her luster. She tries to find room on Harry's lap and when she doesn't find any, attempts to crawl up his leg anyway. He gives her some help and adjusts a few children until she fits.

Her fluffy head nuzzles into his chest. "Dorge sad?"

"Dorge isn't sad," Harry says, patting her hair. "Just tired. It's been a long day, hasn't it?"

Lux nods. "Ousside play." Then she frowns. "Lulu?"

"Lulu's not here right now, Luxie. And you can't play outside, it's too rainy, you'll get mud all over you." He gives her stomach a tickle.

Lux looks sad, but just puts her thumb in her mouth and cuddles back down against Harry's chest.

They probably make a very sad picture, downtrodden toddlers and downtrodden Harry in a pile of sadness on a chair.

They're still there when Perrie and Zayn come in to begin dinner.

Perrie coos at them, one hand smoothing over the rounding bulge of her belly as though she's imagining a future where Zayn's right where Harry is, covered in babies. Most likely, everybody in this imagined scenario is less sad.

"What's wrong, littles?" she asks, bending down to kiss each of their foreheads in turn. "Rain got you down?"

"Lulu," says Lux, her tiny face all wrinkles like a pug.

A worried cloud crosses over Perrie's face, too. "Yeah, he's been gone a while, hasn't he?"

"It's not like him, is it?" Harry asks, keeping his voice quiet. He doesn't want to worry the girls any more than they are.

"Not usually," Perrie says with false lightness. "But Louis works in mysterious ways."

"That he does." Harry's smile isn't exactly fond. He knows that sometimes Louis has to do things that he doesn't tell the rest of them about, but he wishes he didn't.

It would be so much easier to keep track of him if he told Harry everything. "Does Zayn know what's happening?"

Perrie's lips purse, and then she gives the twins a smile. "Hey, why don't you girls come help me with dinner?" she asks, offering them both hands. "It's getting harder to move around the closer the baby gets, and I could use the help."

Daisy sighs and pats Perrie's belly. "Okay."

"We can help," Phoebe-Sunshine agrees, equally listless. "I'm sorry our new sister is giving you troubles."

"I stir," Lux offers.

In a clamber of limbs that probably causes permanent damage to more than one part of Harry's anatomy, the twins and Lux crawl off of him, toddling after Perrie while she nods at Zayn.

Harry is still huffing and holding onto the approximation of his spleen when Zayn sits down in Daisy's vacated chair.

"Something's wrong," Zayn mutters, and though his posture's relaxed, his eyes are alert. "He wouldn't just leave for this long. He's never been the type; he doesn't like leaving the girls."

"You don't know where he is?" Fear jolts uncomfortably in Harry's stomach, right up against his bruised spleen.

"I know what you know, that he said he was going into town to trade for supplies." Zayn's mouth quirks down and he shakes his head. "Sounded like bullshit to me. And he wouldn't have stayed out this long."

"Do you think..." Harry hesitates. If some local cop got mixed up in _his_ investigation, there'll be hell to pay. "I mean, he wouldn't do anything stupid enough to get arrested, would he?"

"No, no." Zayn doesn't look too sure of himself. "He knows how to stay out of the spotlight."

"Is he doing something illegal?" Harry has to ask.

Another twist of Zayn's mouth. "I don't know. Like I said, I only know as much as you do. But I don't know what could keep him out for a whole day. Definitely not trading for supplies."

Harry looks down at his knees. "Do you think he's coming back?"

"Don't ask stupid questions; of course he's coming back." Now Zayn just sounds annoyed. "He wouldn't leave the girls." He pauses, then continues, almost reluctantly. "He wouldn't leave _you_."

Harry goes pink. "You've been with him longer."

"I've never put his dick in my mouth," Zayn says dryly. "It's a bit different."

Harry looks up and blinks. "Really? Never?"

Zayn's face is really good at conveying a lot of different expressions. Harry would hate to be interviewing him. Now he looks amused and disgusted at the same time. "Not even a little."

"But I thought that's how you... never mind," Harry says. "I don't know what I thought."

"It is possible to be friends with Louis and not want to fuck him," Zayn says, sounding amused. "I know you haven't been there, but trust me."

"That doesn't make sense to me." Harry sniffs, Zayn's good humor rubbing off on him. "I can't even imagine."

Zayn pats Harry's cheek. "Don't want to fuck you either, love."

"I'll try to hold in the tears." Harry smiles, but it fades once he remembers that Louis is still gone. Louis would've laughed at this whole conversation, and probably would've blushed a little but tried to hide it.

Zayn and Harry stay in silence for a while, the drumming of the rain on the windows drowning out the sad chatterings of downtrodden Littles and a determinedly cheerful Perrie.

"Louis will be back soon," Zayn says finally. "He will."

"I hope so." Harry wishes he could be as confident about it as Zayn is. Zayn knows Louis better, in different ways, so Harry just has to take his word for it.

They're halfway through a somber soup dinner when the front door creaks open.

Harry's head shoots up and he counts everyone at the table even though he knows there's only one person who wasn't there when they sat down.

Daisy and Phoebe-Sunshine are both up and running before anyone else even reacts.

Louis doesn't look different, and Harry's not sure why he was expecting that he would. He looks very wet, mostly, and a little, well, drunk.

He's holding both twins like someone's trying to tear them away.

"Hello, darlings," he says, and his voice sounds musical to Harry's ears. "I missed you, did you miss me?"

"So much," they chorus in one little voice.

"Don't leave again," begs Daisy.

Phoebe-Sunshine chimes in with, "Ever."

Louis laughs, and it sounds sad. "I'll do my best, sweethearts." He looks up, and his eyes lock on Harry. "Hi," he says.

Everyone is just staring at him. Louis, for all that he's wet and bedraggled, he's here. He's alright. He looks almost like he's clean, his hair tied up behind him.

"Hi," Harry says back after a moment. He's not sure what else to say, and he's frozen in place, unsure of whether he wants to hug Louis or hit him.

Louis just keeps holding the twins, swaying a little. "My little babies. Did you miss me, everyone?"

"Where've you been?" That's Zayn, his voice so quiet that it's slightly scary. It's drowned out for the most part by Niall's exclamations of reassurance that of course they missed him, but Harry's close enough to hear.

"Went 'round the world," Louis says, grinning, manic. "Back in time, don't you know."

There's a grip on Harry's sleeve, and when he looks to see who it is, Perrie's trying to get his attention.

"Go talk to him," she murmurs. "Away from the girls. Zayn and I will take them."

The thought makes Harry's heart do something strange and terrified. "I don't know what to say."

Her eyes flash a little bit. It reminds him of Zayn. "He shouldn't be around them when he's like that, and you know how to talk to him."

Harry swallows. Lou hasn't let go of Lux, even though the baby is brewing up a red-faced yell because she wants to go running to _Lulu_.

"Go," Perrie insists, one hand on her stomach as she heaves herself up out of the chair. "He'll talk to you."

Harry nods and waits, hanging to the side near Jesy and Tom as Perrie pries the twins away from Louis. He seems reluctant to let them go.

Zayn's steaming in his seat, a scowl on his face, and Harry offers an apologetic look, though he's sure it doesn't help.

Louis glares at Perrie's retreating back, and even wet and short and small, he looks... fierce.

His face only relaxes once Harry enters his line of vision, slipping past the rest of the table to kneel beside him.

"You've been gone a while," says Harry softly. "Do you want to go upstairs and dry off?"

"Mmm, my George," Louis murmurs, touching Harry's face. "Did you miss me, too? Were you lonely last night?"

"I was, yeah, I did miss you." This close, Louis smells far more like alcohol, and it's rank on his breath. "Let's go upstairs, babe."

"This is my house, you know," Louis tells Harry. "Mine, for my girls."

"I do know that, Louis," Harry says, offering him a hand to help him up. "And you've done really well with them."

"They're my babies," Louis asserts. "Nobody can hurt them."

"Nobody would hurt them here." Harry frowns, though, because that sounds ominous. "Is somebody trying to hurt them?"

Louis' eyes are dark when the rain reflects off his glassy pupils.

He nods.

Harry tucks his lips into his mouth and shakes his head. "Let's go upstairs and you can tell me about it, okay?" he murmurs.

Louis nods and lets Harry shepherd him up the stairs.

He starts taking off his shirt before they even get to the room, fumbling fingers twisting on the buttons of his wet shirt. It's so soaked through that Harry can see bits and pieces of the ink on his skin.

"Did you walk here?" Harry asks, helping Louis with a stubborn button. "Where's the truck?"

"Where it always is, silly," Louis snorts, getting the rest of his buttons undone with relative ease. "It's cold outside."

"Yeah, it's raining," Harry agrees. "Come on, let's get some dry pants."

"I won't let anybody hurt my girls, George," Louis mutters. "I'm never gonna let somebody hurt my girls."

"I know," Harry agrees. "Nobody is going to hurt them, Louis, I promise."

"You can't know that." Louis yanks his shirt off forcefully, his voice growing louder. "You can't know nobody's going to try to hurt them."

"Louis – "

"When you think you're finally safe, that's when it happens," Louis mourns.

"What happened, Louis?" Harry asks, setting a clean, dry pair of pants on the bed. "While you were gone, what happened?"

Maybe this is the Louis that Harry's been so sure didn't really exist. Just when Harry thought he was safe, it's happening.

"They're not safe," Louis says, tripping over himself in his attempts to change. He sounds pitiful. "They're not safe with me. They're supposed to be safe here."

"They are," Harry promises. "Louis, who do you think is going to hurt them?"

Louis heaves a heavy sigh and plops himself down on the floor, wet underpants and all. "I told you," he says, hands curled in his lap. "I told you about my sisters. The other ones."

"You think they're going to hurt Daisy and Phoebe?" Harry is baffled. "Why?"

"No, no, no, no." Louis sounds forlorn. "No. They're back in Connecticut. With my mom. And _him_."

"Okay," Harry says slowly. "Him who?"

"My... Nothing, he's my nothing. He's married to my mother." Louis sniffs. "I called her when I was in town. I'm sorry it took so long."

"Where were you all night?" Harry asks, still hurt. "A phone call doesn't last all night."

"Walking." Louis flops backward, using Harry to prop himself up. "Thinking. Walking and thinking." He coughs. "And drinking. A little."

"Walking where?" Harry begins to rub Louis' shoulders. "Here... or Connecticut?"

"Thought about it. Knew I shouldn't." He sighs. "So I didn't. You know about my other sisters, I told you about them. Lottie an' Fizzy."

"Right, right, of course," Harry says. "Did someone hurt them?"

"Yeah." Another sniff. "Fizzy's got a broken leg. Few days ago. Mom said she wanted to tell me about it sooner, but she doesn't know how to get ahold of me."

"Well, that's good, isn't it?" Harry asks, then quickly adds, "That she can't find you. Because then her husband can't, either, right?"

"But he can find them. He lives with them. He _broke_ my little sister's _leg_. She's twelve years old." Louis' entire body is tense.

Harry exhales and sits back against the side of the claw-foot tub. "I'm sorry."

Louis shakes his head. "They're stuck there with him. I told her to come here, to bring the girls, we have space, we can have the space if they just came here, but she can't leave without him coming after her."

Harry can't think of what to say. He doesn't want to say _that's her choice_ , because it isn't. Not really. And he doesn't want to say, _at least the twins are safe_ , because that isn't enough.

"I just want them to be safe," Louis says, and it sounds heartbroken. "I want my family to be safe, and with me, and I don't want him to hurt them anymore."

"You have family here," Harry offers, but it's too small.

Louis makes a sad little noise. "I'm tired," he says. He sounds very young all of a sudden. "I'm so tired."

Harry pulls him into his lap and just keeps rubbing Louis' shoulders. "I'm sorry, Louis."

"It's not like it's your fault. You're so good to the girls, they love you so much, you know that." Louis sighs again. "I don't know. I want all the people I love to be safe."

"Well, maybe they can be," Harry soothes. He doesn't know how. "Maybe your mom'll decide to come."

"It doesn't matter what she wants. She doesn't want to live with someone who hits her, or her kids, but she thinks he'll follow her wherever she goes." Louis rubs the back of his head. "I don't know she's wrong."

Harry's seen it before. Louis is probably right. "How did Jade get away?"

Louis gives Harry a dark look. "She's friends with Jesy, isn't she?"

Even though Harry doesn't know exactly what that means, he knows what it means. Jesy's frightening, and devilishly smart, and Harry has no doubt that if she wanted her friend out of a dangerous situation, she'd get them out.

Harry rests his chin atop Louis' head.

"I didn't mean to worry everyone," Louis mutters. "I didn't want to come home yet but I didn't have anywhere else to go."

For the first time, being so isolated from the world seems like a lonely existence. A helpless one.

Harry doesn't want to leave Louis in this state, but he also doesn't want to listen to anyone vomit. When Louis starts, Harry ties back his hair and then heads down to the sleeping room.

No one is asleep.

They're all very quiet, huddled together, and they all look up at him when he comes in. It makes him feel uncomfortably powerful.

"Is he okay?" Perrie asks, one hand rested across her belly.

"He'll be alright," Harry answers, his voice hushed even though, with nobody asleep, there's no reason for it to be. It's not really an answer, but it's the best one he has.

"Where was he?" Niall asks. "I checked down the pub last night."

"Walking and thinking, according to him," Harry mutters. He shakes his head. "I don't know how much he'd want me to say."

Zayn looks up at Harry with quiet beseeching in his eyes. "Did something happen?"

Harry bites his lip. "Yeah," he says. Surely that's not giving too much away? "Something happened. I'm sure he'll tell you about it tomorrow."

Zayn and Perrie exchange a dark look, silent words passing between them.

"I can guess," Zayn says glumly.

It's a tension-filled night as they all try to settle down to sleep. Nobody's really tired and nobody feels like fooling around, so it's all twisting and turning and frustrated sighs.

The rain keeps beating on the roof until just before dawn.

They're all up too early, but the sun is just peering shy over the horizon when Louis comes downstairs. He's washed and he's wearing clean, dry clothes, so he already looks a thousand times better than he had.

His face is a little gray around the edges, and it's a shame they don't have any good hangover cures – Harry'd always liked a big, greasy Maid Rite when he was feeling ill.

"You look better," Harry says under his breath when Louis settles in the seat next to him. "Than you did last night, I mean."

"I feel better, although it tastes like something died inside my mouth," Louis says dryly back. "Thank you for taking care of me while you did."

"Least I could do, you've been putting up with me for far longer." Harry sets his hand over Louis'. "Feeling okay, then?"

"I'd feel better if we had McDonalds here," Louis sighs. "Never thought I'd say that again."

"I used to eat the worst food in the world after I'd had a night out," Harry says. He hasn't had one of those in a while – all his nights out now are really nights in, moonshine and the guys.

"Oh, yeah?" Louis asks, giving Harry a little smile. "I can't see you eating junk. You like fruit too much."

"Because fruit is delicious. So is a good burger." Harry smiles back. "Everything in moderation."

He leans back in his chair and sighs. "We have these – they're not quite burgers? In Iowa? They're just loose ground beef on a bun, but they're so good when you have a hangover. And the rest of the time, but mostly then. Serve 'em with a spoon 'cause they're so messy."

Louis looks like he might swoon.

"That would be amazing right now," he groans. "I've got the mother of all headaches."

Harry leans over and gently kisses Louis' temple. "Maybe Jade'll let you have some canned weenies."

"That doesn't sound as good," Louis whines, but he seems pleased as punch with the kiss. "After breakfast, I need to talk to you. You, Zayn, and Niall."

Harry swallows. "Alright. Sit tight and be good; I'll go talk to Jade and see if we can get some fat and salt in you."

Louis groans again, but it sounds less despairing. "I think I'm dying," he says dramatically. "Quick. Before it's too late."

Harry ruffles his hair and then heads off. There's something that he, Zayn, and Niall have in common, and it isn't a penis, because Louis doesn't want to see Tom.

If it were a meeting of what Harry's begun affectionately referring to as the inner circle in his mind, Perrie and Jesy would be there as well, so it can't be that, either.

Louis served with Zayn, but not Niall. And George is just an innocent young thing, as far as Louis knows.

What could they all have in common? He'll find out after breakfast, but going in blind isn't how he prefers to do things.

Anyway, it's probably nothing. Maybe he ran the truck into a ditch while he was drunk and he needs their help to tow it.

It's probably that.

At any rate, the color does return to Louis' face once he gets food into him, though he winces every time a plate is set down. Harry's pretty sure that Jade, at least, is setting them down hard on purpose.

Jade is never anywhere to be found on Guys' Night In, either.

She probably has good reason to hate drunk men.

Apart from the cringing, Louis is as good a host as he usually is, keeping up with multiple conversations at once, laughing at jokes, talking to the twins. He keeps his eyes on them more often than he normally would.

Lux scuttles under the table before her food is finished to clamber up into Louis' lap, too, crooning about _Lulu_ and _ousside play!_ , and Louis kisses the top of her head before promising to play with her later, later.

"Now!" Lux insists, but Louis shakes his head, offering her a finger to examine and occasionally gnaw on.

Beneath the table, Louis keeps his knee pressed to Harry's thigh.

The mood of the house has drastically lightened since yesterday, but everybody is still a little hushed, tiptoeing around heavy topics and sticking to things like wondering when the berries will be back in season and how the weather is getting better.

Lux runs straight into a mud puddle when Lou opens the back door, and everyone's startled, exasperated laughter at the sight of her covered face to toes in a thick layer of mud seems to break tension.

Lux's face screws up but she doesn't cry, smacking her hands down in the puddle so that mud splatters everywhere.

Hanging from the porch railing, Tom is actually crying, he's laughing so hard at his daughter. Harry is glad: this is the childhood someone should have, and Tom the sort of father they deserve, not... getting your leg broken.

Louis touches his arm. "Now, if you don't mind," he murmurs, keeping his head ducked close to Harry's neck. "Up in the dollhouse room. I'll get the others."

Harry wipes his eyes and kisses Lou's cheek. "Good luck with the bath."

"Thanks, George," she replies. Harry doesn't get the feeling she's altogether sincere in her gratitude.

Lux is rubbing mud into her pigtails with great care when Harry turns to go back inside the house.

On his way inside, he notices Louis grasping Niall's shoulder and leaning in to speak into his ear. He still has no idea what Louis could want with all of them, but he's about to find out, it seems.

Niall nods, his eyebrows pulling together. His mouth is just a small pink line in his blond beard.

His cane clunks on the ground as he follows Harry, catching up faster than a man on one good leg should be able to.

"What's this about?" he asks Harry in a mumble.

"I'm not sure, exactly," Harry whispers back. "But it's to do with what upset Louis last night."

“Shit," Niall states frankly. "I don't do heavy well before noon. Least I've eaten."

Harry snorts. Zayn is already upstairs, it seems, because he's waiting beside Louis when they get to the workshop.

"Close the door," Louis instructs, sitting on the table and swinging his legs. "This is between us and nobody else. That means not even Perrie." He gives Zayn a significant look. "I don't want to worry her with the baby so close."

Zayn's face shutters. "Worry about what, Louis?"

"I checked in with mom last night, to see how things were at home." Louis' face is solemn, and Harry's not used to seeing him like this. "It wasn't good, Zayn. Fizzy's got a broken leg."

"Fucking bastard," Zayn swears. His hands clench into fists.

He says that like he knows, like he takes it far more personally than Harry could. He's met them, then, the rest of Louis' family.

"I don't want them there with him anymore. They're not happy and it's clearly not safe." Calmly, Louis lays out facts. "Mom can't get them out, not without him knowing. But I can go and get them."

"Take them, you mean," Niall says slowly.

Harry swallows. "Kidnap them. Technically. Is that it?"

"No," Louis says quickly, "No, it was Mom's idea, so... not really. Just... we'll have to be quick. And a little clever."

"Does he have custody?" Harry asks, his mind a whir. "It's a gray area, sometimes, if he has custody of them as well. It could still be kidnapping then."

"It doesn't matter," Louis says. "He doesn't deserve them. He hurts them, George. Not a little spanking, either; he threw her down the stairs and broke her leg."

"I'm not saying he deserves them." Harry folds his arms. This could ruin everything. More than everything. But his job is to make sure bad people can't hurt good people, isn't it? "I just... don't want anybody to get into trouble they can't get out of."

"That's why I want you all to help me," Louis says, his palms open in supplication. "I can't do it alone."

"I'm in," Zayn says. Immediate. The response of somebody with personal ties on both ends of the operation.

Louis looks to Harry next, but he can't speak.

He cannot engage in a criminal enterprise while he's undercover.

But he _can't_ not do this for Louis, for Louis' family. For an innocent child in danger.

"I'll do it," Niall says. "I'm good at distractions."

Louis nods, but his eyes are still on Harry. As the seconds tick by, he looks more and more confused. Hurt, maybe, even.

"George?"

"I..." Harry cannot say yes. 

And George cannot say no.

Who will he be?

"I'm in." For better or for worse.

The relief on Louis' face breaks his heart.

But he's supposed to take down the bad guy. It's what he does, all he's supposed to do, all he's wanted to do since he was a kid. It's a crime. But he has to commit it to maintain his cover.

He just doesn't think the agency will see it that way.

And anyway, he is taking down the bad guy. It just isn't the person the agency thought it would be. That's happened before. Informants gone rogue, and the like. Nixon, for fuck's sake.

Sometimes the agency gets it wrong, and he has a chance to get it right. It'd be criminal for him _not_ to do this.

Okay, that's a stretch. But not much of one.

"George?"

Harry startles. Everyone else has moved to sit around the drafting table.

"I'm here," he says, making his way to his own seat. "Okay. How are we doing this?"

Strategy's what he does best, after all.

Not that any of them know it.

* * *

The truck is warm. Either the truck is warm or Harry's warm, thinking about what they're about to do. They have it all planned out, but he knows more than anything how quickly plans can go wrong due to something unexpected.

It's been a long time since they've been anywhere other than the farmhouse or the rural outpost on the other side of the trees. Once they turn onto the highway, the speed of the other cars – the flash of the sunlight off their chrome fenders – seems thunderous. Harry feels like a newborn.

Louis is driving, Zayn next to him in the passenger's seat. Niall and Harry are in the back, with their supplies on the seat between them. Harry's just grateful at this point that nobody had to be in the bed of the truck.

They have the windows cranked for air, and Niall keeps holding one hand out the window to let it fly like an airplane wing, buffeted by the speed of the gale their truck makes on the road.

"Wish I had a smoke," Zayn mutters, letting out a whoosh of air. "Need something to do with my hands."

"I know what you mean," Harry mutters. Whenever he and Liam were en route to a takedown, he would clean his gun.

"I didn't think you smoked," Louis comments, glancing up at Harry in the rearview. "You never mentioned."

"Well, I don't now, do I?" Harry asks. He's on edge, snappish. He'd startled at a hug from Lux this morning.

"I guess not." From this angle, Harry can see how tightly Louis is gripping the steering wheel. He's not as obvious about it, but he's clearly nervous. He'd be an idiot not to be.

Niall, in contrast, seems to be in his element. Then again, if Harry's suspicions are right, this is a lot less illegal than most of Niall's previous missions.

He's not shaking at all. In fact, he looks a mixture of bored and anticipatory. It's the most uncertain of Niall that Harry's ever felt.

The drive to Connecticut is both longer and shorter than Harry'd expected. They eat a packed lunch at a rest stop on the side of the road, saving a few sandwiches for the girls, in case they're hungry. There's still a chill in the air, but spring is coming on green buds and the constant crackle of ice melting like glaciers dropping into the ocean.

"Never been to Connecticut," Niall says lightly, swiping his wrist over his mouth to clear it of crumbs. "Hilly, isn't it?"

Louis shrugs. His knee bounces up and down under the table. "Suburban, mostly."

"Sounds it, from the name." Niall shakes his head and balls up the paper his sandwich had been wrapped in. "Connecticut. I'll never understand Americans."

Zayn just rolls his eyes. His temper is short with the stress, seems to prefer silence.

"We should get back on the road if we want to get there and leave again before dark," Louis comments. "Anybody else want to drive? I can stick with it, but I thought I'd ask."

There should be only forty-five minutes left in the drive, but it's been ages since any of them drove in actual traffic. They don't want to risk being late.

"Guess it's me, then," Louis says when nobody else responds. Harry would've offered, but he's pretty sure George isn't the type of person who would have a license.

This time he gets the passenger seat, so Zayn and Niall can jump out ahead of them to set up their... distraction.

Harry sets a hand over Louis' on the gearshift, ready to remove it if Louis wants him to, or if it gets a bad reaction.

Instead, Louis exhales, his shoulders settling slightly.

Good sign, that. Harry keeps his hand where it is.

The neighborhood that Louis finally eases the truck into is one where they definitely need a distraction. The truck in itself sticks out like a sore thumb, much less four men in tatty clothes and long hair.

"You lived _here_?" Niall asks from the backseat. He sounds awed. Harry is busy trying not to have flashbacks; this neighborhood could almost double for the one he grew up in. For a split second, he almost thinks he sees twelve-year-old Gemma climbing a tree.

A muscle works in Louis' cheek. "For a while. As a teenager. When it was just Mom and me, we lived somewhere else."

"Can't picture it," mutters Niall, and then he wisely shuts up, dipping his head closer to Zayn so that they'll be ready when they need to be.

There are crocuses in the yards, just barely beginning to peek their purple heads above the grass. A few tire swings hang on ropes from sprawling oak trees. The mailboxes are uniform white tin, shutters red or white or blue. American flags decorate a house or two, but nothing like when Harry was small – before the war – when national pride was a given.

It's all very normal. Both hard and easy to believe that someone who lives among all this green grass and sidewalk chalk could break a little girl's leg.

Harry knew kids back in Iowa who came to school sometimes with a black eye, but never a broken bone. In the military academy, it was de rigueur, a hazing ritual of the older boys against the new Cadets – protecting yourself in the showers.

But here, in red white and blue suburbia, it shouldn't happen. Kids shouldn't need protecting from adults, when they're the ones adults should be protecting.

They turn another corner and Louis idles on the engine. "Get out here. We'll be another five houses up."

No questions asked, Niall and Zayn duck out the car doors and close them quietly. The look on Niall's face is truly frightening; while Zayn looks determined, Niall looks pleased.

Leaning on Zayn, they make their way over to the red fire hydrant on the corner of the block.

"Are you ready for this?" Louis mumbles. "You can still back out, stay here with the car."

Harry should take it. He can witness a crime as long as he is not part of its commission – hell, that's what he gets paid to do when he's in deep cover.

But Louis can't do this alone. He thinks that he can, and he'll try to do it regardless, but he needs Harry. And, if he's letting himself be perfectly honest, Harry needs him, too.

"I'm with you," Harry says softly. "Just lead the way."

Louis heaves a heavy sigh and nods, the relief clear in his face. "Let's go."

Louis Tomlinson's family home is a two-story block of blue-gray siding and white shutters, black shingle roof, and window boxes with struggling red flowers.

"Mom's expecting us, and he should be at work this time of day." Louis' knuckles bump Harry's between them. "We go in, get the girls and get out. Simple and quick."

"Are you going to try to convince her one more time?" Harry asks. His lips are cold.

Louis looks very sad. He shakes his head. "She won't come," he murmurs. "Useless to try."

"Doesn't she want to see the twins, ever?" Harry asks.

"I don't know. She probably thinks it's not safe." Louis shrugs, a miniscule movement of his shoulders. "I've given up trying to convince her. I've used the twins before to try and coax her, but it didn't work."

"Maybe she thinks it'd be harder," Harry suggests quietly. "If she had to leave them again."

"Maybe," Louis allows. They're almost to the door. "Or maybe not. I've stopped asking."

Harry touches Louis' arm lightly. The way Louis loves those girls... it must be unfathomable not to want to see them.

Louis takes a deep breath and knocks on the door, his hand twisting to grasp Harry's wrist tightly, just for a moment before he lets it go.

An eye ringed in bile-yellow and brown bruise peers around the lace curtain at the side of the door. There's the scrape of a lock.

The woman who answers the door doesn't look much like Louis, with the frightened look on her face and the sickly pallor where Louis, even in the winter, has hints of tan. Harry can hear Louis' throat bob.

"It's good to see you, Mom," he says.

The way she smiles when she sees his face, though. That's a mother's smile, and she cups Louis' cheek in one palm. "Thank you."

Louis closes his eyes, leaning into her touch, and Harry feels like he should look away, so he does.

Her hand has gnarled knuckles, like they've been broken and jammed and didn't reset correctly. Harry's only seen fingers like that after off-the-books interrogations.

She turns her smile to Harry, and she looks much more like Louis with that expression. "You must be George. Please, come in."

Harry ducks his head and nods, and then he commits a felony.

He steps over the threshold.

Two girls without Louis' face but with the twins' blonde hair are already waiting.

Something in Louis' face breaks a little, and then he draws himself back together. "Do you both have everything you need?" he asks. "It's good to see you. We do need to hurry, though."

The one with a broken leg – Fizzy, Felicite – has tears running down her cheeks. "Mom, _please_ come with us!"

"We talked about this, sweetie," Louis' mother says, bending onto one knee to cup the damp sides of her daughter's face. "I can't, not now. But I will see you again, I promise."

"He's gonna kill you," says the other one, the older one, in a flat voice that suggests the same detachment as a scientific fact, the reading of a stranger's obituary. "If you don't come."

"He won't." Her voice is a voice that Harry's heard many times, the voice of a person who knows that the only reason he won't kill her is because then there would be nobody left for him to hit. It's a voice that's been beaten down and down until it had no other choice but to stay.

He wonders what she wanted to be when she grew up. God knows it wasn't this.

Louis reaches out and tousles the standing sister's hair with false confidence. "Come on, Lottie, think positive."

She has a scrape across one cheek and her nose looks like it's been broken at least twice. Unlike Louis' other sisters, who have grown up in paradise, these two don't know _how_ to think positive.

"Louis!" It's Zayn, winded at the door. "That license plate you said to watch for – he's coming. Must be home early?"

"Shit," Louis curses. Harry wouldn't dare curse in front of his own mother, but Louis' barely blinks. Of course, she's used to worse. "Come on, we have to go, _now_."

"Mom," whimpers Fizzy, holding out her arms.

"You need to go now, honey, there's no time!" But she does give her daughter a hug, and a kiss right to the top of her blonde head.

Lottie barely accepts the kiss she's offered, she's vibrating with so much suppressed anger.

"Come on, move, move, move," Louis barks, urging Lottie toward Harry. "George, help her to the truck, I'll get Fizzy."

"Hi, I'm George," Harry says quickly, taking Lottie's duffel bags. He holds out his hand. "Let's go."

She doesn't answer with her own name, but she does take his hand. He can't remember how old she's supposed to be -- fourteen or fifteen, maybe, old enough to know that she's probably never going to see her mother again but not old enough to know who to be angry at about it.

They run out the front door and to the truck. Niall's in the passenger seat this time, Zayn at the wheel with the truck's engine rumbling.

"In the back," Harry says urgently, opening the door for her and ducking his head in as she scrambles across the seat. "Louis' coming with the other one, once we're in the truck bed, _go_."

Zayn nods curtly. He's still tuned tight, his eyes piercing as he watches down the edge of the sidewalk.

A gold Toyota Cressida is edging around a massive puddle and spray of water attacking the block from the broken fire hydrant. The man behind the wheel is red-faced and furious, already loosening his tie.

Zayn leans out his window. "Louis! T-down two!"

Fizzy is still struggling with her crutches on the front step, sobbing. Harry watches Louis' mouth move around the word _fuck_ and then he scoops her up, broken leg and all, crutches left in the bushes, and he runs to the truck.

Harry ducks out of the way and, moving on autopilot, vaults over the side of the truck bed, crouching down low enough to protect most of his body. He reaches for his own gun before he remembers he doesn't have one, and instead waits three heart-pounding seconds for Louis to shout " _Drive_!" as he's jumping into the back with Harry.

Louis peers over the side of the truck bed just as his stepfather's head turns and Harry pushes Louis down, covering him with his own chest.

"He'll recognize you," he hisses. "Stay down!"

The truck is already moving, Zayn's foot pressed to the gas, and they peel out down the street. The smell of burning rubber is heavy and familiar.

Harry ducks his head, presses his lips to the top of Louis' where Louis is lying still under him.

Heavily breathing, Louis' hands are clutching Harry's shirt, and he doesn't say a word until they're at least a mile away. "We did it. They're out."

But they aren't safe, yet. He'll be home in a minute, find them gone, and – if he doesn't take it out on Louis' mother first – he can follow them right to the compound.

"Zayn!" Harry yells, hoping Zayn can hear him over the truck's engine. "Don't drive straight to the highway! Take a left here! Just random streets!"

"That's smart," Louis mutters. He's blinking slowly, apparently still processing what they've just done. A hand sticks out the driver's window and knocks twice on the roof of the truck. Zayn's heard him. He takes the turn.

They drive in zigzags and circles for an hour, passing buildings that make Louis mutter _first blew a guy behind that shop_ and _I had my first job there_.

It's good. It's obviously helping him to calm down, and he's even speaking in complete sentences by the time they pass the park where a dog pissed on his leg once.

They edge onto the highway then and start zooming northward, Zayn driving like a madman and passing cars between lanes.

"Don't want to get pulled over," Harry mutters.

"He won't." Louis' mouth twitches feebly upward. "Zayn's good at avoiding pigs."

Harry swallows.

Louis leans up onto his elbows and sighs, rubbing his chest. "That could have gone better."

"It could have gone worse," Harry points out. He winds his arms around his knees.

He should feel guilty.

He just broke the law in ten different ways and left a woman with an abusive husband. He's complicit in kidnapping along with half a dozen other things that he would arrest himself for.

If he were smart, he would head to the payphone tonight and call Liam.

But if he were smart, he wouldn't have come along at all.

In some ways, Harry's really not smart at all.

"Remember that first night?" says Louis, quiet, his hand running over the bed of the truck.

Harry nods, still curled into a little ball. "I'll never forget it."

"I feel safe back here with you," Louis says softly. "Like nothing could go wrong."

Levering himself down, Harry rests his head on Louis' chest and closes his eyes. The wind is sharp on his face. "Me, too," he mutters. He wishes it were true.

When they arrive back at the house after hours of driving, everyone is waiting for them on the front porch. For the first time in a long while, Harry notices the threadbare clothes and unkempt hair. It's a different world from the one Lottie and Felicite are leaving.

They're both wearing jeans, and they're not particularly high quality but they're newer and bluer than anything they'll have here.

The truck parks out in the grass at the side of the house like always, and Harry kisses Louis' neck before they vault out of the back. The cab opens and Zayn slides out of the driver's seat to help Niall and his leg down, and then he holds out a hand for Felicite.

Neither Tomlinson sister moves. They stare back at the crowd in the house, wide-eyed.

Harry doesn't know if they said much during the drive back. If they did, he couldn't hear it over the wind.

"Everyone's really nice," Niall assures Felicite. "And it'll be good to stretch your strong leg."

She swallows, and shuffles forward tentatively, her leg stretched out in front of her. "What," she says, her voice tiny and scared, "What happened to yours?"

Niall smiles at her from behind his bushy beard. "Nothing here, Fizz."

"I fell down the stairs." It's automatic, and embarrassed, and Harry's heard it dozens of times before.

"Me, too."

"You talk weird," she observes, but she takes his hand and lets him help her hop down from the seat, balancing carefully on the strong leg.

"I talk like I'm from Belfast," Niall says. "Which I am."

"Where is that?" asks Fizzy, and even if she's still cautious, she's at least talking to somebody.

Niall's lips quirk slightly. "The Republic of Ireland."

"I know about Ireland," she replies. "I learned about it in Geography. It's across the ocean, like France."

"That's right," Niall agrees. He holds out the arm not relying on his cane. "Can I help you to the house?"

Fizzy tucks her lips into her mouth, looking at him with clear suspicion. "I guess," she mutters. "Don't trip me or anything, though."

Niall looks legitimately hurt. "I would never."

"Cause I could trip you back, if you've only got one good leg, too," Fizzy continues. For a twelve year old, she's very good at being menacing. It's a cute sort of menacing. "I could do it."

"I bet you could." Niall's arm doesn't waver, and they go hobbling off towards the house together. Tom meets them on the lawn with another cane already whittled smooth for Felicite.

Lottie hasn't moved from the truck's cab.

"Jesus," she mutters. "When Mom said it was a commune, I didn't think she meant full-on San Francisco type."

"Colder than San Francisco," Louis comments. His tone is light, but Harry can tell he's a little disappointed in her reaction. "New Hampshire has more seasons."

"Does it smell in there?" Lottie asks. Her jaw is set. "Is there a shower?"

"It smells as much as anyplace smells," Louis says. Very diplomatic. "We use a bath, not a shower."

"Is there an indoor bathroom or do we shit in the woods?"

"Hey," Louis says. "Language."

She gives him a very droll look. Harry is ever so slightly appalled. He remembers being a teenager, and he was much more polite than this.

But she has been through a trauma, he supposes. It can't be easy, to be uprooted like this.

"There's a bathroom," Harry says. "On the second floor, if you need it."

Lottie looks at him like she's only just realized he's there, and she’s not very impressed. "I need it," she says, hopping daintily out of the truck and shutting the door behind her.

She stalks to the house without taking the hand Louis' offered her.

The tiniest change in posture, the tiniest slump of a shoulder and crumple to the small of his back, makes Harry reach out for Louis instead.

"She'll learn to love it here, in time," Louis says under his breath. "Just needs a little getting used to."

"Yeah," Harry agrees. He tucks Louis' head under his chin. "We've all been there, right?"

"Fizzy seemed to like Niall, though, didn't she?" asks Louis, hopefully. "I think they got off on the right foot, or leg, as the case may be."

Harry sways Louis gently. "Yeah. I think it's going as well as anyone could expect."

"Only time will tell," Louis mutters. "At least they're out of that place."

"Exactly." Harry kisses his head. What's done is done. "They're better off."

Harry knows that, and Louis knows that, and to some extent, even the girls must know that. Fizzy keeps to herself most of the time over the next few weeks, occasionally sitting in the living room to seemingly prove a point, or following Jade around to help with the inventory.

Lottie holes up in the dollhouse room and rarely leaves. She brought along one copy of Tiger Beat Magazine and she leafs through it over and over like it's a holy text that she's memorizing to keep her faith in a land of nonbelievers.

She is, a bit, Harry thinks.

She's in disbelief that they don't have pizza, or burgers, or pork chops. Her sullen face makes an appearance at the breakfast table and at the dinner table, and apart from that, she keeps to herself.

Louis has tried to get her involved. He asks her to play with Lux, to knit with Perrie, if she'd like to meet the goats. It's too sensitive to ask her to play with the twins.

Lottie doesn't want to do anything but stew in her own anger and to a degree, she's entitled to it.

This is a different place than anywhere she's seen, and she's the only person even close to her age here. There's no way for her to bond with anyone in the way there was for Harry.

Not that she's tried to. Perrie especially has gone out of her way to try and make Lottie feel welcome, only to receive stony silences and arctic glares.

On the first real day of spring, Leigh-Anne decides that it's about time to cut off Fizzy's cast. She'll need to exercise carefully and won't be able to bear weight comfortably for a while yet, but keeping her immobile for longer than necessary would be worse.

Jade sits by her and holds her hand while Tom carefully saws the cast off her leg. Fizzy is more comfortable around the women than she is around the men, but that's only understandable.

Lottie comes downstairs in the middle of the event and glares.

"What are you doing touching my sister?"

"We're taking the cast off," Louis tells her, leaned against the wall as he supervises. "Better to have a little more mobility while it heals the rest of the way."

Lottie gives him a withering look. "I mean, why are _you_ touching my sister?" She points to Leigh-Anne.

The world holds its collective breath in Harry's head.

Leigh's face only changes for a second, but it's a second too long. She's safe here, been safe here for so long, and now there's a crack in the place which is supposed to make her feel secure.

"Leigh is a nurse," Zayn says, his voice brittle. "She's the only one here who knows what she's doing with medicine."

"You don't need medicine to take a cast off," Lottie replies. "You need a doctor, in a hospital, in the _real_ world."

"It feels better," Fizzy offers nervously. "Really, Lottie."

Lottie's face screws up and, perhaps realizing she's alone on her side of this argument, stomps back up the stairs.

Zayn looks at Louis across the kitchen with fire in his eyes. "You need to get _that_ sorted out right now."

"Of course," Louis says. His face is red, whether from anger or embarrassment. "I'm so sorry, Leigh."

She swallows. And doesn't say that it's alright.

Because it's not, and it isn't going to be.

Harry reaches out for Louis to give him a shoulder-rub, but Louis just skirts away and heads silently up the stairs.

He's not sure how the conversation goes, because when Louis comes back downstairs for dinner his eyes are dark and angry, but Lottie keeps her mouth shut when Leigh is sat across from her at the dinner table.

Dinner is fraught with tension. Not even Lux says a word.

Ordinarily, Louis would diffuse the tension with a quick joke or comment, but he seems contented to let it go on.

Or not -- contented.

Resigned. He doesn't even respond to Harry's hand on his knee under the table. Doesn't follow Harry into the sleeping room at night.

It's like he's given up on making Lottie feel welcome because Lottie clearly doesn't want to be welcomed.

It's like he's given up on feeling like _he's_ welcome.

As the weeks pass, he becomes more and more despondent. Even Zayn can't bring him out of his funk. Of course, Zayn's busy, planning and pre-planning and re-planning for the baby.

Slowly, the twins start acting out. Phoebe-Sunshine won't stop hanging on Louis, but Daisy tucks herself into Perrie's side and won't leave.

Harry is still in-trend, it would seem, as the twins both still play with him, but he can tell Louis is hurt.

The first day that Fizzy manages to get down the stairs on her own and out to the goats' paddock is cause for celebration. She turns her face up to the sun and laughs as they eat paper shreds out of her palm.

Louis hugs her and she even lets him, though she doesn't hug back. It's still a big step, and Harry sees Louis swipe his fingers underneath his eyes when he thinks nobody is looking.

"Bizz!" Lux demands, hanging over the paddock fence. "Ousside play?"

Fizzy tucks hair behind her ear. "Okay," she agrees, offering Lux her hand. "I can't run, still."

"Play ghosts," Lux assures her, squeezing through the fence and tumbling into the hay. She picks up the brush the twins use to groom their babies and offers it to Fizzy.

Carefully, Fizzy lowers herself to the ground with her weak leg stretched out in front of her and accepts the brush. "I can do that," she says.

Lux beams at her and stomps over to plop down in Fizzy's lap.

"Oof!" Fizzy winces, but she wraps her arms around Lux. Lux is good at forcing people to love her. It's just so hard not to.

While Fizzy brushes Molly's coat, Lux chatters. She plays with Fizzy's long hair, too, and even chews on it a little in the ultimate demonstration of affection.

Fizzy doesn't seem too upset by it. When Lux pulls, she just retrieves her hair and asks Lux to do it more gently.

Eventually, Phoebe-Sunshine makes her way outside, too, trailing after Louis like a little shadow.

"My goaties," she says, clenching her tiny hands into fists when she sees the position Fizzy is in. "My goaties and my Luxie."

"Phoebe," Louis sighs. "What do we say about sharing?"

Phoebe-Sunshine looks mutinous, folding her arms across her chest. "My goaties," she insists. "They are mine."

"Molly is yours," Louis agrees. "But Felicite can brush her if Molly wants. Look how happy she is. You haven't seen her much lately."

That just gets him a scowl. "She is my goat," she says. "I want to brush her."

"Okay," Louis agrees weakly. "Ask Felicite nicely."

Phoebe marches straight up to Fizzy and, hands on her hips, says, "Let me brush my goatie."

"Nicely," Louis calls again. Harry looks up at him from his seat on an overturned bucket in the pen where he can keep an eye on Lux. Louis looks worn. Like crumpled paper that can't be smoothed.

"Let me brush my goatie, lady," Phoebe amends.

Harry can't help bursting into laughter. "Phoebe-Sunshine! That isn't nicer!"

"I called her a lady!"

"Luxie lady," Lux insists.

"Luxie traitor," says Phoebe with a dark look.

Lux doesn't look bothered. Neither does Fizzy, who holds out the brush with a, "Here you go, m'lady."

Harry takes it as a sign of hope. He looks across the lawn for Louis, but his lover is gone.

* * *

The time passes in a whirlwind of preparing for the arrival of the baby. There’s so much to do and even though there is so much time, there isn’t enough time. It seems like Harry blinks and it’s May, and Perrie’s belly is swollen so big that she has trouble walking. Louis makes jokes about there being more than one set of twins in the family now, and every time, Perrie looks at once terrified, hopeful, and enraged.

Harry has never really spent much time around... woman things. He must have when he was very small, what with only Mom and Gemma in the house; he probably played with dolls and tried on lipstick or sat in on a Tupperware party, but he doesn't remember it.

And even though there are a few women in the agency, he rarely interacts with them on more than a base, cordial level. In this house is the first time he's ever been around women who weren't related to him for extended periods of time.

He's learned more about how their lives and bodies work in the last few months than he thought he cared to know, if he were truly honest. Some of them don't even stop taking part in the orgies when they're bleeding, and it'd taken him a long while to get used to the sight and the smell and the _attitude_ of it.

But this, the baby, everybody's reactions _to_ the baby, Harry doesn't know if he could ever get used to that. Not that it happens often enough for him to need to, but he feels so very out of his element here.

Perrie actually seems the least stressed of anyone.

"You really don't need to make such a fuss," she says, sat in the rocking chair by the stove as everybody else is getting ready to fill the pool on the porch. As Harry watches, she winces, a hand on her stomach. "I still think it'll be hours before we need to bother with any of that."

Zayn is already pacing back and forth behind her, his hands never ceasing to run through his hair. "We haven't finished making the diapers yet, and I forgot all about talcum powder–"

"We'll have plenty of diapers," says Perrie, all patience and calm. "It'll be amazing, Zayn. It'll be beautiful, won't it?"

In Harry's opinion, it has not been so beautiful thus far. There was a puddle in the kitchen until Jesy mopped it up with some of the aforementioned diapers.

But if Perrie wants it to be, he's sure it will be, and he won't be the one to tell her it isn't. She's glowing, smiling, and ready for what she's been preparing to do for so many months.

And so is the rest of the house. Lou and Leigh-Anne are out on the back porch stacking blankets and towels, because Perrie asked to be outdoors nearer to nature. Jade and Jesy boil pot after pot of water, first to clean the tub and then fill it.

Zayn is panicking. Harry and Louis are ostensibly providing moral support, but are really not needed, as far as Harry can tell.

"Zayn, you already raised the twins, man!" Louis says, shaking Zayn's shoulders. "You know how to do this! Well, not this part, but the rest of it!"

"This part is what I'm worried about," says Zayn, frazzled hair and manic eyes. "I've never delivered a baby before. What if I do it wrong? Can you do it wrong?"

"Well, yeah," Harry says. "It goes wrong a lot, probably. They're really small."

Louis gives him a scathing look, and Harry shrugs helplessly. He's just telling the truth.

Perrie smacks Harry's behind, which is all she can reach from her chair. "Don't scare my Zaynie like that!"

"Sorry," Harry mutters. "I'm sure it'll be fine?" he tries.

"Damn right it'll be fine," Niall says, hobbling back inside from the porch. He's got a Mason jar of moonshine with him, and Louis gives him a look. "For disinfecting. And for Zayn."

Zayn looks at the jar desperately, then looks to Perrie, swallows, and shakes his head.

Niall sets his jaw. "Take it. You won't help if you're jittering."

Zayn gives Perrie another glance, then takes the jar, tipping it back until he can take a swallow or two.

He does stop shaking, Harry thinks. Even if the calm is manufactured, he at least looks less pinched than Perrie now.

Perrie sighs and beckons to Zayn. "Sit," she demands. "You'll only get in the way, until it's time."

Zayn sits on the floor near her feet and rests his head on her thigh. It seems risky, from Harry's point of view, but maybe they only puddle once.

It does look like it makes Zayn feel better just to be so near her, but that might be the moonshine again.

Finally the tub is full and cool enough that it won't make Perrie soup, and Zayn and Niall both steady Perrie with arms around her lower back to help her shuffle out to the back porch. It's late, and Lou is holding Lux on her hip. With Perrie busy, the twins don't seem to know where to go or who to take as their shepherd, so Harry holds out his arms and they both come running.

"Baby tonight?" asks Daisy, on his left. Her eyes are shiny and hopeful.

"Looks like," Harry agrees, hoisting her up onto his hip. "Is that okay?"

"I like babies," Phoebe-Sunshine answers for her. "I like Luxie and she's a baby."

"That's true," Daisy says, although she sounds a little forlorn. "But that's another new person."

"I like new people," insists Phoebe-Sunshine. "I liked Luxie, and I like Georgie."

"That's right, I was new," Harry agrees, chucking Daisy a bit on his hip. "And Lottie and Fizzy are new, right? And they're very nice."

"Mostly." Daisy is still frowning just a little.

Harry knows what she means. "Come on. We get to camp outside tonight, won't that be fun?"

"I like the stars," Daisy agrees. The thought does seem to cheer her up a little. "Will we see the stars?"

"Probably," Harry assures her.

Perrie gives a low groan from the porch, and all three of them – Harry, Phoebe-Sunshine, and Daisy – balk at the door.

She waves them off. "That one was a bit more intense than the rest," she says, a hint of a sheen on her brow. "I'm just fine."

"Are you okay?" Phoebe-Sunshine asks tremulously.

Harry has never quite seen anything like the scene on the porch. Perrie is knelt in the tub, leaning over the side on a towel to soften the edge, her whole lower half under the water.

"I'm wonderful, little one," Perrie soothes. "We just don't know quite when the baby will be here. Better safe than sorry."

Phoebe bites her lip and stays away from the tub, instead hanging around the porch railing. The stars are out tonight and the breeze is soft.

"How long does it take?" asks Daisy, braver than her sister, padding over to the edge of the pool and peering curiously down into it.

"A long time," Fizzy offers shyly from where she's sitting on a cushion, her weaker leg propped in front of her. "Sometimes a whole day."

She ducks her head when everyone looks over at her, most in surprise. Louis, however, has understanding on his face.

"Right, right, you'd know," he murmurs. "Mom."

Fizzy nods from behind her hair. "Sometimes we'd go with her. Just to keep her company."

"That was very nice of you," Louis offers. "I'm sure it gets lonely."

"Yeah, just screaming otherwise," Lottie says. "And then a lot of crying."

"I'll try not to scream so much," Perrie replies, her chin resting lightly on her arms. "No promises, though."

Louis gives Lottie a stern look, but doesn't say anything. He would if it were anyone else, but with Lottie, he's stopped saying much of anything.

Harry thinks he probably understands Lottie better than anybody else here, but it's not like he can let her know that, and anyway, she hasn't been very receptive to conversation.

She's curled up in the corner of the porch by Fizzy, but she's eyeing the jar of moonshine.

He decides to keep an eye on it. Just in case.

Jade keeps rubbing Perrie's shoulders and back, leaning over the side of the tub. "You doing alright? How far apart would you say the contractions seem?"

"Closer together now." Perrie inhales sharply and slowly lets the breath out. "Few minutes."

"That's good," Louis encourages her, his voice smooth and calm. "Just try to stay relaxed. Is the water warm enough for you?"

"It's wonderful. Everything is." Perrie smiles at him, and only the edges are strained. "Thank you."

Louis kisses her head. "You're amazing."

Harry doesn't know what he or the sisters meant about their mother, but maybe she'd given birth to Daisy and Phoebe like this. He can't imagine it: when Gemma had Greta, Harry and her husband, Bert, waited in a white hospital waiting room with all of the other men. The door was thick enough to dampen any noise, and the air was thick with celebratory cigars and nervous cigarettes.

"If anything, I'm sorry for all the fuss." Perrie's eyes are sparkling like the moon catching on the ripples of the water. "Though I always did like to make a production out of things."

Jesy laughs and gently twists Perrie's hair out of the way, securing it with a bit of fabric so it won't hang in the water. "That you have. Remember Palo Alto?"

"How could I forget?" Harry doesn't think the sudden hint of color in Perrie's face is from the temperature of the water.

Jesy just laughs and pulls a face to make Perrie relax.

It's a very relaxed affair, at least for the moment. Zayn's panic aside, everybody is doing a lot of waiting, and Perrie herself seems content to close her eyes and rest against the side of her pool.

Harry sidles over to Louis, who is standing alone at the railing, further from the rest of his family than anyone else. "Shouldn't – why isn't anything happening?"

"What should be happening?" asks Louis, clearly surprised. "Until the baby starts getting insistent, there's no reason to be too fussy."

Harry frowns. "Oh. Perrie can't do anything?"

"She's doing everything she can do. Staying calm. Getting herself ready, here." Louis taps his temple.

"Oh." That sounds less medical than Harry had expected.

"I know she might look like she's all laughs, but she's concentrating." Louis seems certain of that, as Harry takes another glance at Perrie.

"On what?"

"I don't know, really, I'm not a woman." Louis shrugs. "But I know it's hard work, having a baby."

Harry deliberates for a moment, then ventures, "Your mother, you were saying?"

Louis scratches his beard. "She's a midwife. We've all seen a lot of different kinds of births."

"Even you?" Harry is a little scandalized.

This amuses Louis, for some reason. "Yes, even me. In a crisis, you take any help you can get. Even a thirteen year old boy who's frightened by any sort of child, much less a screaming one coming out of a woman."

Harry snorts. He nuzzles his face against Louis' shoulder for comfort. "Did it turn out alright? The crisis?"

"It did." Louis' arm wraps around Harry's waist to tug him closer. "Turns out I'm an excellent helper, when need be."

For a while, it's almost easy to forget why they're all out here. Every few minutes, Perrie whimpers or groans, but for the most part, everyone is just milling around on the porch like any other night. Lou lets Lux down the stairs to go sprinting off across the lawn and jump after fireflies.

It's peaceful. Harry smiles. He really does love it here.

Zayn and Perrie's baby will be safe and happy here, too.

All of a sudden, Perrie groans again, but this one sounds different. More urgent, Harry would say if he had to describe it.

"That's it," Leigh-Anne urges, suddenly all business, kneeling down at the side of the tub. "That felt different, huh?"

Perrie presses her lips together until they're white and nods.

"Zayn, hold her hands," Leigh instructs. "And let her squeeze even if she breaks your fingers." Perrie squawks at that, and Leigh pats her shoulder. "You won't really."

"I'd let you," Zayn assures, pale and young-looking in the scarce light. He offers Perrie both his hands and Perrie hangs onto them like they're the only things keeping her afloat.

Harry understands that. Maybe he's never been giving birth, but since he's been here, he's done a lot of floundering in deep water and sometimes it seems like Louis is the only person keeping his head above it.

"Do you need anything, love?" Jade asks Perrie.

"I'm fine, dear." Perrie's smile is still pretty even if it's tight at the edges. "For now, anyway. They're just getting a bit restless."

"Just think, soon you'll know all about them," Jade says, smiling.

"I already do," Perrie gasps, indignant even through the pain.

"Of course you do," Jade soothes. "But soon you will with your eyes as well as your soul."

Perrie affords her a short smile and squeezes Zayn's hands – this time on purpose.

"I think there's going to be another hard one soon," she says, taking deep breaths. "I can feel it coming on."

"Okay," Leigh-Anne soothes. "When it does, just breathe through it. It's not time to push yet."

"I know." Perrie's voice is on the edge of a snap before she lets out a sigh, trying to smile. "Sorry."

"Soon, sister," Leigh-Anne promises. "Are you sure you don't want anything? I bet Louis could find you ice if you wanted."

Perrie is breathing quickly, but nods. "I wouldn't say no to ice," she says. "Ice sounds nice."

"Where are you gonna get ice?" Lottie asks suspiciously. "D'you have a magic glacier?"

"Something like that," says Louis. "But it's really not so hard to understand. Niall," he says to get his attention, "can you head into town and get some ice? You know the people there better than I do."

It's a blatant lie; Louis knows nearly everybody in town by face if not name. But Niall's looking pinched around the mouth, his pallor a little yellow.

It must be hard for him, seeing this. Harry doesn't even really understand how Perrie knows that the baby is Zayn's and not Niall's – but that must be it: even if it were, it would be Zayn's child to raise and love, anyway.

But it has to hurt. Even though Harry knows, in his heart of hearts, that both Perrie and Zayn love Niall, it has to hurt to feel like you can't be a part of something as important as this. Not fully.

Niall nods, his shoulders relaxing, and hobbles into the house with his cane. Then there's a moment of silence and the three-step sound of his footsteps comes back out onto the porch long enough that he can kiss Perrie on the forehead, too.

"I won't take long."

"You'd better not." Perrie smiles tremulously at him. "I need you here."

Niall smiles at her. "Aw, I'm useless. See a pretty woman in pain and I'm all teary, too."

That gets him another one of her smiles, and she stops breaking Zayn's hand for just a moment to lay her palm along Niall's cheek. She doesn't say anything else, but Niall's eyes close for a second.

He swallows, kisses her palm, and then heads off again to find the truck and get to Bressie's bar for some ice.

Perrie's breath quickens and slows in starts and stops, her grip tightening white-knuckled on Zayn's hands again and again as the time passes. It seems to be going more slowly than usual, though Harry's pretty sure that's just him.

Lux falls asleep out in the middle of the grass, fireflies alight on her pale hair. Soon enough, Daisy slumps and joins her in dreamland, but Phoebe-Sunshine remains awake, hovering near Perrie's tub like she isn't sure whether she's welcome.

Harry gives Louis' back a rub to let him know that he's moving, settling down on the porch next to Phoebe and patting the spot beside him.

"Sit with me?" he requests. "I could use the company."

Phoebe-Sunshine scampers over and cuddles into Harry's side. "Thanks, George."

"Of course, Sunshine." Harry pats her hair. "Come on, let me braid your hair. I could use the practice."

She agrees easily, twisting around so that Harry can reach the hair that's grown to nearly halfway down her back since he arrived. It's not only to distract her, if he's being honest with himself. He needs something to do with his hands.

Perrie is normally the one who braids the twins' hair. As much as Harry doesn't want to think it, if something goes wrong tonight, maybe it will become Harry's duty.

He swallows, hard, the lump in his throat unable to be dissolved. No. He won't, can't think like that. Everything is going to be fine.

Lux was born here, and she's perfect, and Lou is perfect, too. They know how to handle this.

And Perrie's a strong lady. She's one of the strongest people Harry's met, and back at work, it's their job to be strong.

She might look like a faerie princess, but Harry's seen her wrestle Zayn to the ground. He probably wanted to go, but the baby probably wants to be born, Harry reckons. Maybe it'll be the same.

Once Phoebe's hair is in two neat braids behind either ear, Harry dangles them back in front of her shoulders. "All done," he announces.

She inspects them meticulously before nodding once and giving him a, "Passable." She looks so much like Louis when she puts a stern face on that it makes Harry laugh.

"D'you want to do mine?" he offers. The curls can make it hard for tiny fingers to work through them, but as his hair's grown, they've lengthened into waves.

Her face breaks into a devilish grin. "Okay!"

"You're going to regret that," comments Louis, leaned back on the ground against the side of the pool now, watching them.

Perrie even huffs a single laugh and turns her head to rest on her forearms, facing them. Her eyes are shiny and wet. "You really are."

"I have full faith in Sunshine," Harry says firmly, scooting down a step to give her the perspective she needs.

Her toes dig in under his shoulder blades when she sidles in close enough to reach his hairline. And then apparently she's known all along that he began as a spy in their ranks, because she proceeds to scalp him.

He does his best to keep from screaming, or shouting, or crying. He's withstood interrogation techniques from the very best in their trade. He will not be brought to his knees by an eight year old.

"Your hair's tangly," Phoebe-Sunshine comments, yanking some out by the roots, probably. He'll be bald after this.

"You're doing a very good job of fixing that for me," says Harry, his voice wavering.

"Thank you," she says primly.

Perrie begins what looks like she meant as a laugh but ends as a low, grating grunt of pain.

As Harry watches, her hands clamp down on Zayn's again. This one lasts longer, a tense moment until Perrie pants and relaxes.

Leigh-Anne reaches down into the tub and Harry can't help wrinkling his nose. Perrie's eyes are shut; she can't see, anyway.

Leigh-Anne's face goes carefully blank, and she stands to go murmur something to Louis.

He frowns, just a little, perhaps more thoughtful than upset, and tips his mouth up to reply, the movement of his lips hidden by her hair.

Harry wants to go ask what's happened, but Phoebe's got him tied by the hair.

So instead, all he can do is watch as Louis twists up onto his knees, head ducked low to talk to Perrie and Zayn.

Zayn's shoulders practically touch his ears, they're so tense. Perrie just sets her jaw and looks determined.

He's very nearly ready to tell Phoebe it's going to have to wait a minute so that he can find out what's going on, but then Louis smiles, kisses both of their cheeks and makes his way over to Harry anyway.

"Excuse me, Sunshine," Louis says. "I need to borrow the side of George's hair a minute."

"I'm fixing his tangles," says Phoebe doubtfully. "It is important."

"I know, sweets, but this is important, too."

She huffs, but gets to her feet. She wavers a little, eyes blinking with tiredness.

Louis leans in close to Harry and whispers, "Leigh says that the baby's moved into its birth position, but it's – something's wrong. She doesn't know what yet, but I guess Perrie's belly's the wrong shape."

Harry's heart beats out of rhythm. "Is she going to be alright?" he asks urgently. "The baby? Do we know?"

Louis carefully doesn't change his face or his stance. "Leigh is very good. She'll do her best."

That's not an answer. They both know it. Harry stays silent, and nods.

"What can we do?"

Louis touches Harry's arm. "We wait."

Harry takes a deep breath and nods again. That's all they can do. So they wait. And they wait. And they wait.

Eventually Niall comes back with a big bag of ice, and after Zayn pulls him aside to whisper the news, they both sit in front of Perrie and smooth her hair and whisper and feed her bits of ice.

Even like this, she's beautiful, and full of light. Determination. If anybody can make it through this intact, she can.

But she's definitely in more pain now. Between ice chips, she can't stop whimpering.

The stars up above aren't as pretty as Harry'd promised the twins that they would be when everything underneath them is tense and fraught with nervousness.

Eventually Lux wakes up wet out on the lawn and cries a little from confusion, so Lou has to take her inside for a clean diaper and some milk.

It doesn't break the tension. If anything it skyrockets, Lux's cries a reminder that Perrie isn't the only one at stake here.

Phoebe is asleep now, too, leaning up against Harry's side where she slumped over after finishing a few pigtails. Across the porch, Fizzy is curled against Lottie the same way, but Harry can see that both sisters are still awake. Watchful.

"I think it's soon," says Perrie, shattering the silence. "It feels different, now."

"Alright," Leigh soothes. When she takes her hands out of the water, they're red.

Harry has to drop his head into his hands and breathe deeply as his world tilts on its axis. He counts to ten and back, slowly, before he can lift his head again.

"Okay, Perrie, sweetheart, let's turn around so the baby has room," Leigh urges. "Zayn, you can rub her shoulders if you want."

Zayn's face has lost all the color it had, which wasn't much, even before the bad news. He nods and shifts around as Perrie does, never quite taking his hand from her arm.

Harry can hear him murmuring encouragements to her. But he still can't look.

This is it. Leigh is worried but hiding it well, for Perrie's sake, probably, and Zayn's. But everybody can tell this isn't going to go as smoothly as they'd been hoping it would.

"Okay, Zayn, can you brace her back for her?" Leigh instructs gently. "Or – Niall, if you'd like?"

Harry thinks he can hear Niall's throat bob from here. "I can do that," he says quietly. An offer, one that Perrie and Zayn are free to accept or decline.

"Please," Perrie gasps, then winces, trying to bury a raw sob in her chest.

Niall scurries, as well as any man with a cane can scurry, to her, doing as Leigh instructs and helping to brace her back.

"Alright, Pez. It's time to push."

Perrie nods, near-frantic, eyes already spilling over with tears. Her lip is trembling, and she's so young; Harry sometimes forgets.

"It's alright to cry," Niall says softly.

"I'm scared." Perrie's voice is very quiet, and it breaks in the middle.

"That's alright, too," Zayn promises.

Harry's heart breaks for them. He feels like the most cowardly person in the world, because he still just can't look.

It's just that babies are so small, and there's an awful lot of blood. It smells off, too animal to be right.

"Ready? Push now," says Leigh, her voice as steady as Harry's ever heard it. He's not sure how she's doing it.

"It hurts, it hurts!" Perrie yowls, and then – it's surprising enough that Harry's head snaps up, she grits out, "I can't fucking keep it up, Leigh."

"You can," Leigh says. She sounds certain. "You can, and you will. Come on, push."

Perrie shakes her head, blonde hair coming loose. "I'm doing it wrong, something feels wrong!"

"I need you to push so that I can fix it, Pezza," Leigh says, her words measured and slow, even. "I can't fix it if you don't push for me."

On either side of Perrie, Zayn and Niall lean in and gently kiss her cheeks. Perrie pushes.

"I can't do it!" she cries, her shoulders shaking. "It hurts too much, why does it hurt so much?"

Leigh-Anne shakes her head and the water swishes softly. "The baby is alright, but it's trying to come out with its shoulder first instead of its head, and neither of you can bend that way. I need you to relax."

"I know how to move it."

Everyone looks over to the corner of the porch. Lottie clears her throat. "I know how to twist the baby to face right. I've helped my mom do it."

She's defensive, like she's expecting somebody to chastise her any minute now for saying anything. Instead, Leigh looks at her very seriously, and says, "Can you help me do it?"

Lottie nods. "If – if that's okay with everyone."

“I need your permission, Perrie, it's your body – can Lottie help me deliver this baby?" Leigh asks. Her face is caught between hope and fear.

Perrie is already nodding. "Anything, anything."

Lottie steps down from the porch, rolling her sleeves up. She looks older than her years like this, ready for battle, her young face drawn tight in a sure frown.

When she kneels by the side of the tub, Zayn catches her eyes.

"Thank you," he says quietly. It's a big step.

She frowns at him, but it's not as severe as the frown she's had since the day she got here. "Of course."

For someone who's complained about the floors and the bedding and the water and the food and even the air seeming unclean, Lottie has no problem sticking her hands right into the bloody water of the tub.

She stays quiet, feeling Perrie's swollen stomach, the concentration on her face enough to keep everybody else in the yard quiet.

"Okay. Its head's over here, feel it?" She touches Leigh-Anne's hand, and it seems like a victory. "From there we can feel where its belly is and its hips, and we should move it there. Not the neck."

"Not the neck," Leigh repeats. Her hands are visibly moving to the areas Lottie is indicating. "Right. Got it."

"Okay. Perrie, this will feel probably not good. I don't know. Just relax, okay, and breathe when I say."

"Relax," Perrie mutters. She sounds incredulous. "Breathing. I can breathe. Okay."

"That's it." Lottie's face sets in concentration. "Inhale."

Perrie does, her shoulders rising with it, her eyes and her trust all on Lottie right now.

"Good. Stay relaxed. Now don't push, just exhale."

It's a struggle, clearly, from the look on Perrie's face, but she shakily lets the air in her lungs out.

"Good. Okay, now from the shoulders down – there, good – Perrie, inhale."

As Harry watches, Lottie becomes the leader of them all, trusted beyond anybody else. Everybody is paying attention to her, listening to her, and he barely feels like he should breathe, lest he disturb her.

"Good, that's it. Okay. Now don't push, but exhale." Lottie looks up and searches Perrie's face. "Does that feel better?"

Speechless, Perrie just nods frantically, her hands gripping the edge of the tub as tears continue to wet her face.

"Good. Good. Now try pushing."

"Pushing?" Perrie sounds like she'd rather try flying solo to the moon.

"Yeah. It should be easier now. Just try, okay? The baby needs it." Lottie actually smiles.

"The baby," Perrie repeats. "I'm having a baby. Pushing."

"Right." Lottie nods and smiles a little wider. "Come on. Do it."

"I can do it," says Perrie. The determined look she'd had when Leigh had first told her about the problem is back. She grits her teeth visibly, closing her eyes.

From here, all Harry can see is a circle of women around Perrie, Leigh and Lottie and Jade and Jesy and Lou with Lux in her arms.

It's not his place, so he stays where he is as Perrie shouts, pushing and pushing and pushing.

Louis isn't in the middle of everyone, for once. He doesn't try to be. He stands back, on his own, watching his sister take part in their family.

She's in her element right now, urging Perrie on, and even if Leigh is still there, still helping, Lottie is the one with all the power.

Just like Louis.

Harry guesses it must run in the family, that ability to swing the tide in your own direction without even thinking about it.

After what seems like an age, a new sound fills the air. Just a tiny screech.

Time stands still. Nobody moves, but everybody is moving. Harry holds his breath.

"It's a boy!" Leigh-Anne is triumphant, the tiny sobbing getting only louder as time passes.

Louis sits down right where he's standing as Zayn grabs Niall in a hug so hard he probably bruises him, but Niall's hugging him back just as hard. Jesy is waltzing Jade around the pool, whooping as she goes. Harry's never seen Jade smile so big.

"I need the clothespin," Leigh says, and she clamps off the cord. She offers Zayn the sterilized scissors.

"Actually," Zayn says, his eyes brimming over. "Lottie, would you cut it? He's here because of you."

She looks surprised. And honored.

"Okay, if you're sure," she says quietly, accepting the scissors when Leigh hands them to her instead.

Lottie cuts the cord and then there's a tiny baby in Perrie's arms. He's covered in gore and his eyes are screwed shut and Harry can't rightfully say that he's beautiful or cute or even looks human yet, but he's alive.

And that's beautiful, even if he's just kind of… screaming. And bloody.

"Well, he's got healthy lungs," Niall says hopefully. "Good volume."

"Reminds me of you," says Zayn, still crying. He nudges Niall with his hip.

Niall grins. "Nah. Hair that color? He's your son. I can already see the cheekbones."

Zayn tries to say something else, but he chokes on his words, and Niall just pats him on the back as he gets his breath back.

Louis finally stands and makes his way over to Zayn. He embraces him like they're magnets and he can't let go.

"Look what you've gone and done," he mutters. He couldn't sound prouder. "Have you decided on a name?"

"Yeah," Perrie says, her voice choked with tears. "We're calling him – I can't, I'm crying too hard! This is ridiculous! Look at this; I made a person!"

She's holding the baby close, looking down at him and cupping the back of his head carefully.

"He's beautiful," says Louis. He smiles, kissing first Perrie's head, then the baby's.

"So, little one, what's your name?"

Perrie sniffs, and Zayn smiles through his own tears at Louis, one hand resting between Perrie's shoulder blades, the other helping her support the baby's back. The sun is just breaking the horizon, casting pink-purple-shadows in the burgeoning golden sky.

"Amir," he says. "His name is Amir."

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	12. Chapter Twelve

It’s been two months since the operation to bring Lottie and Fizzy to the farm, and they’ve passed more or less peacefully. There have been bumps, here and there, of course, but soon enough everything has settled back into the way it’s supposed to be.

"Up, up!" Lux urges Harry, jumping and waving her arms. "Again, again! Pleeease?"

Harry pretends to flop with exhaustion. "Again, Luxie? You want to fly _again_?"

"Yes!" she begs. "Please, Dorge?"

"I don't know if I can," Harry says, his arms dangling at his sides. "Do you think I can do it? My arms are _so_ tired."

"Yes, you can," Lux says very seriously. She kisses his elbow. "All better."

He gasps, filled with renewed strength, and scoops Lux up in his arms amidst shrieking laughter.

He tosses her in the air and she shrieks, nose wrinkled and legs kicking. He's just caught her again, swooping her low in a dip, when Niall hobbles through the fence gate and says, "Heya, George? Can I talk to you a second?"

"Yeah, of course," says Harry, giving Lux one last toss and catching her again, balancing her on his hip as he plods over to Niall.

Niall reaches out and tickles Lux under her chin. "Maybe Luxie here can go play with the goats while we talk?"

It's rare that Niall needs to speak to him without one of the kids there; it's been a while, probably since before the others got here. He frowns and nods, some of the good cheer seeping from him as he sets Lux down and pats her on the back. "Why don't you go talk to Molly for a while, Luxie?"

She smiles. "Okay." She hugs his leg, and then Niall's good leg, before trotting away.

"What's happening?" Harry asks, straightforward. He folds his arms across his chest, unsure of whether it's actually all that serious but knowing that Niall wouldn't want to speak to him completely alone if it wasn't important.

Niall lowers his voice. "I was down the pub and this fella comes up to me, says, 'You know George Shelley?' and I says, 'Who?' y'know, 'cause I don't know your family name and it's weird, you know, someone to come asking for any of us. And he holds out your picture."

Harry's spine straightens, his brow drawing down. "What did he look like?" There's only a few people who know the name he's been given, and none of them would be here for a good reason.

"'Bout as tall as you, real short hair, milit'ry-like. Square jaw, brown eyes. Wearing all his buttons done up." Niall looks a little guilty. "Said he was your brother."

Liam, then. What's Liam doing here? Nothing good. If Harry knows him at all, he'll have followed Niall back at a distance. He's probably either out in the trees or he's waiting in town for Harry.

He can feel his training kicking back in, his heart beating faster, and he's bizarrely aware of his limbs.

"What'd he say?" Harry asks. He's not sure if he's actually speaking slower than he usually does, but it feels like it.

Niall looks shiftier still. "Family emergency. Something's wrong with your dad's heart." He looks down and scratches his blond beard. "I said you'd talk to him. It just sounded serious, is all, I'm sorry – "

"No, no, don't be." Harry shakes his head, and tries for an apologetic smile. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I know it's not... I don't know how he found me. I didn't really let him know I was leaving."

"People are good trackers when they want to be," Niall says. "There ain't ever really a place that's perfect for hiding."

Harry knows that, and he's learning it more and more every day. He doesn't know what he thought would happen when he didn't come back – perhaps that they'd just forget they sent him at all, that maybe he could pretend Harry Styles never existed. He shakes his head again. Stupid. Of course Liam would come check on him. It's been months.

"I should... speak to him," he says, touching his fingertips to the ends of his hair, grown long and gnarled in places. It'll probably offend Liam's delicate sensibilities. "Find out what's going on, with my..." He swallows past the lump in his throat. "With my dad."

Niall scratches his beard again. "He's, er, 'bout fifty paces back. Near that gnarled tree what looks like a cock."

"I'll get him to go away," Harry promises. "I'm sorry about all of this. I'll tell Louis, if you want."

Niall lifts the hand not balanced on his walking stick. "That's for you to decide. Your relationship with Louis is yours, you know what he needs knowing."

"Yeah," whispers Harry. He knows what Louis needs knowing. And he'll definitely have to tell Louis about this.

Niall hobbles off towards the house, and Harry pauses, takes a moment to collect himself. He hasn't seen Liam in a long time, and if he's here, if he's come to collect Harry –

He doesn't want to go.

He takes a deep breath, tucking his hair behind his ears where he can and brushing some of the dirt from his legs. Steeling himself, he heads out toward the cock tree.

It's always strange to see Liam in anything other than a suit. Once, they'd gone out on Grimshaw's fishing boat, and the sight of Liam in Bermuda shorts made Harry just about wet his pants laughing.

Other than that, he hasn't changed much. Same haircut. Same serious expression. Same way of standing, like whomever he's talking to is wasting his time even if they aren't.

His back is straight as a telephone pole. He's examining the cock tree like it's done something distasteful.

"Liam," says Harry, unsure of what else to say. This close to the house, he really shouldn't say anything else until Liam prompts him. For all he knows, he's about to have a conversation entirely in code, which is irksome to think about.

Liam looks like he's both happy and sorry to see Harry. "It's been a while."

"It has." Harry shoves his hands into his pockets. "I wasn't expecting you," he says, looking at the cock tree, "which may have been the point."

"It's been six months since you checked in," Liam says. "You missed three calls."

"I can't always get to a telephone, you know that." Harry sighs. "They'd get suspicious if I was always leaving to check in. As it is, I'll have to explain you coming here. They're not very trusting people."

Liam's already shaking his head. "I'm alone, I thought... you're my partner, and you deserved that first. But Harry, people saw you. At Tomlinson's step-father's house."

There's a buzzing in Harry's head, like a radio with bad reception. "What?" he asks. His tongue feels too large for his mouth.

"A neighbor saw the whole thing. Tomlinson, two accomplices, and you showed up at the residence of his estranged family and kidnapped the two daughters when they got home from school. Plus… step-father reported it and gave a perfect description of you to our sketch artist."

Harry shakes his head, though it still feels numb. "No, that's not what happened. Liam, that isn't what happened," he says, insistently. "You know me."

They aren't always together on missions, but they've known each other since college. And then the Academy. Liam has always, always been Harry's point. He's dependable and reliable and has never bent a rule even so far as an inch.

But it's been six months since they've spoken. And Liam does know him, better than most people. Better than his parents, probably. Which is why it's not much of a surprise when Liam looks doubtful, his eyebrows saying a lot even as his mouth twists.

"It might not be what you meant to do," Liam concedes. "But it is what happened from Bureau's point of view."

"What are you here to do, then?" Harry asks, gone cold. If it's just him, then it would be fine, he'd leave to protect the other people here – but it's not just him. Liam said that they know it was the four of them, which means at the very least they'd be bringing in the people who went.

"Harry." Liam pauses. He leans against the trunk of the cock tree. It's such an un-Liam-like stance that Harry knows, he knows. He's in trouble. "I know you've been here a long time. But you don't owe these people anything. And you are not one of them."

"I know that, Liam," Harry says, because that's what Liam needs to hear, and Harry's always been good at knowing what Liam needs to hear. "I know that," he says more firmly.

"The operation's over," Liam says. "A provable crime has been committed. We're taking Tomlinson in." He pauses then continues delicately. “Within the hour.”

"You can't do that," comes out of Harry's mouth automatically. It's ridiculous, of course. Liam can do that. The agency can do that. This is what he was brought in to investigate, to prove that Louis was doing something illegal, but he hadn't been, not until they'd gone to get his other sisters. Within the _hour_ , that’s not enough time to do anything at all, and the operation can't be over because that means that everything is over. Everything.

Liam's eyebrows draw together like unhappy caterpillars. "We have to. That's the job. If he has a good defense or his parents drop the charge, then he'll be found not guilty. It's justice, Harry."

Nothing about this is justice, and Harry turns his head away, looking at the cock tree again. He'll never see it again. He remembers when getting out of here was his top priority. Now it seems like the worst thing that's ever happened.

"What day is it today?" he asks.

Liam's face goes even more concerned. "It's Wednesday, Harry. Have you not been keeping track? No wonder you haven't noticed the time passing."

"We don't have a calendar," Harry says faintly. "Who's President now?"

"Jimmy Carter, since January," says Liam. "It was close between him and Ford but he squeaked ahead."

Harry nods. He doesn't know anything about Jimmy Carter. A president named 'Jimmy;' how ridiculous.

"Harry," says Liam, seriously. Harry knows he's being serious, because it's his Harry-I'm-being-serious-would-you-please-listen-to-me voice. "This is as much notice as I could give you. The team’s on their way to the town near here, and once we’re set up, we’ll be making our move. You need to be ready by then. Get your affairs in order.”

Harry nods.

"Are there any weapons on the premises we should be aware of?" Liam asks. 

"No," Harry whispers, and his throat is so dry it makes no sound. He shakes his head. "No. There are no weapons at all. And there are children, so... please don't use gas."

"Children?" Liam's face is disgusted. "Other than the ones he kidnapped? And you didn't bring us in yet?"

"They were born here," Harry mutters. "That's not a crime."

Liam doesn’t tell him much else before he leaves. Harry could stall him, but it wouldn’t do any good unless he could warn the others first.

He can't arm himself. He can't arm the others. He wouldn't, anyway, not with so many children in the house. At least he told Liam about them. Hopefully he listened. Hopefully, he believed.

"You're quiet," Niall notes when Harry gets back to the house, his cane clack-clacking up to Harry's side where he's watching out the window. "Didn’t go well?”

Niall's more perceptive than he's given credit for.

Harry just shrugs, rubbing his arms, scanning the horizon. "I've been here nearly a year. Just thinking about how much has changed."

"Been that long?" Niall's eyebrows raise. "Well, you slipped right in. A year," he mutters. "Really?"

Harry nods. "Almost. Another few weeks."

"Here's to many more." Niall tips an imaginary drink to Harry.

Harry could cry.

"To many more," he agrees in a mumbling croak, trying to muster a smile. He doesn't think it works.

He thinks, more than once, about just confessing. Telling Louis, telling everyone, right now, so that they can… What?

What could they do? If they show up and no one is here, then Harry can't protect them next time they're found. And they would be. Harry would be an agent AWOL, assumed dead or kidnapped himself, and the full force of his team would go at Louis with everything they had.

The way Louis looks at him, all that trust. It’ll be gone. The way he looks at his _sisters_ , like he can finally let his walls down and enjoy the world now that they're all with him. Safe. He thinks they're all safe.

They've never been less safe, probably. And they came from an abusive household. An abusive household they're about to be sent back to. This, this house, this place, is all a dream.

Around the house, Harry can hear Perrie singing with Jade and Leigh-Anne as they do the washing. A tiny childish giggle carries on the breeze, and the goats are all bleating as they wait for their lunch.

It's picture perfect, and that's all about to change.

There’s no time to prepare anything at all. Liam doesn't like to loiter; he goes straight in for the kill.

Kill. God, Harry hopes nobody's going to die today.

"I have to go," Harry mutters. He claps Niall on the shoulder and heads towards Perrie's voice.

He was there the night Perrie's baby was born, and now if he does nothing, the baby could be left without its mother and father. With nobody. Just gone two months old and that little boy could be an orphan because Harry refused to stick his neck out.

Amir blows an admiring spit-bubble at Harry from his snuggly hammock against Perrie's chest.

"Perrie," says Harry quietly to get her attention, still half-thinking of what he's going to say. "You busy? Can I talk to you for a second?"

She runs one hand over the feathery hair on Amir's round head before nodding. "Alright. Is this little eavesdropper allowed?"

"Yeah, of course, always." Harry can't keep from smiling when he's around the baby. He's always loved kids. It's been amazing, being around so many for a whole year.

He touches Amir's round cheek with a fond finger and starts leading them out across the fields. Towards the root cellar.

"How are you handling him?" Harry says. Maybe he can lead into it. "Is he still fussy in the night?"

"Poor little tummy is colicky," Perrie says regretfully. "And I think the heat's a bit much for him yet. I wish we had ice chips."

"I'm sure you're doing your best," says Harry, softly. "You're a really wonderful mother."

Perrie smiles. She looks tired, but she's still beautiful. Amir's little foot escapes his sling and she tickles his tiny toes. "Where are we going, George?"

"Oh, just down here," Harry says, arranging words in his head. "To the root cellar. It's cooler in there, so I thought you might like to see how Amir likes it, compared to in the house."

"We have a root cellar?" Perrie asks, then smiles as Harry opens the hatch. "Thank you, George. I wonder why Louis' never mentioned."

"You know how he is with his secrets." Harry smiles back, as well as he can. "He probably won't like that I've told you, but if it's for the baby he'll see the sense in it."

Perrie cups Harry's cheek. "Thanks, George. You're sweet." She settles into one of the squashy chairs and groans appreciatively before moving the sling so she can feed Amir.

"Would you like company?" Harry offers. He shouldn't, not when he knows that Liam will be coming with a team at some point very, very soon. But Perrie looks so exhausted, even though she's still glowing, beautiful, just as much a princess as she looked the first time he met her.

"I have company," Perrie says, waving her hand and smiling down at her son. "We're alright."

"If you're sure?" Harry bends to kiss her cheek quickly, a hand on her shoulder as he kisses the baby's head. For all he knows, this is the last time he'll see either of them.

"Yeah, we're fine," Perrie promises. She frowns. "Are you alright, George? You look a bit strange."

"That's just how my face looks." Harry wears a laugh like a mask, creaky as it is.

He leaves them there, where he knows they're safe. Amir always falls asleep after his meals, and it's cool and comfortable down there. They'll stay put.

At least the baby will be safe, then. He can try his best with everybody else, but the baby and Perrie will be safe.

Tom. He has to get Tom and Lou, and they'll have Lux. No one will be looking for Lux, since as far as the government knows, she doesn't exist. Harry would like to make sure they keep thinking it.

Maybe if he says he thinks Perrie might want company? No, that doesn't make sense. Lou might go, but Tom would stay behind to look after Lux.

Although Lux is fascinated by Amir. She'll want to play, won't she? And it'd be good for her to get out of the heat, too. He'll make them go. He'll find a reason.

Any reason will do as long as it gets them out of the house. They didn't have the root cellar on the plans Harry'd been given. Nobody knows about it. They won't look there.

He can't hide everyone – Liam knows originally Harry had been sent to find eleven people, but it's conceivable some would move on. These people are nomads, hippies. Cadaver dogs won't smell them, so the root cellar is still safe.

If he can at least save some of them, that'll have to be enough. It just has to be. It's all he can do.

He wishes he could hide the twins, but Louis would never go down without a fight if he can't see that they're alright at least going into custody.

Harry does not want Louis to fight. They will kill him.

He shudders at the very thought. If only he had more time. If only he'd just left when he was supposed to. If only, if only.

But if he'd left –

Harry shakes his head and takes a centering breath. Keep the emotions out. He won't be effective if he's having _feelings_ , and sure as hell, Liam and the rest of the team will be on their game.

Harry has to be better.

He used to be good at his job, after all. Before everything. Before _feelings_.

He steels himself as he walks, back straightening, strides lengthening. He has a vague plan; he needs to go through with it.

The next person he sees is Jade, and he calls her name before coming up on her bad side.

"George," she says in greeting. He thinks he even detects a hint of affection there. They've come so far since their first weeks. Everything's changed so much.

"Hiya, Jade," Harry says, pasting on a smile. "Listen, I know that it’s not nice to, uh, be a snitch, and I wouldn’t say anything, ordinarily, but I know how much you like to keep inventory, and Louis’ been squirreling away snacks and things."

She looks bewildered and a little downtrodden, the smile that had been playing on her lips completely gone. "He has?” she asks.

"Well," Harry says, effecting a sheepish pose, scratching the back of his neck, "We found this old root cellar, and he showed it to me, you know? And I thought it wasn’t a very cool thing to do, but he’s Louis, right?”

Jade just watches him for a moment, her eyes gone squinty suspicious and then she says, clearly upset, “No, it’s not. He’s been keeping secret food?”

He winces and turns it into a cringe, like he’s upset too. “I know, I was upset, too. I can show you?”

"Lead the way," Jade allows, tiny form buzzing with barely withheld anger, hefting her skirt a little so that she can keep up. She tends to have to shuffle when her skirts are out long, and no matter how many times Leigh offers to hem them, Jade insists that she likes the authenticity, whatever that means.

Harry knows so much about these people. So many insignificant things that aren't insignificant at all.

Jade deserves to be allowed to stay here, even if the only people left are Perrie and tiny Amir. Unless she's been gone long enough to have been declared dead, she'd be sent right back to the man who tried to make her that way if she's found.

She doesn't deserve that. Nobody does, but least of all Jade, so guarded and cautious around those she doesn't trust and loving and caring for those she does.

Harry leads her down to the root cellar and she smiles through her irritation at the sight of Perrie and her baby both dozing in the shade.

"It's cooler down here," Harry says. "Probably because it's so far underground."

"It's nice," Jade admits. "And it would probably be better for the food to stay cooler, too, even canned properly. Better safe than sorry." She frowns. “It’d be really useful to have the extra space. Why wouldn’t he mention this place?”

"You can have a look around if you'd like," Harry offers. "To see how much space there really is. I had a look around before, but you'd know better than I would."

"Sure," Jade says. "Thanks, George. For telling me. I really appreciate that." Of course they'd have a breakthrough on the day everything ends.

"Of course." He smiles and can't keep it from being sad. "Any time."

Time might be running out. Harry is almost sprinting back across the field. He _has_ to find Tom, Lou, and Lux in time. But he doesn't know how much of that he's got left.

It may already be gone: the lawn is empty when he gets back to the house.

"Shit," he whispers. "Lunch."

He can't save everyone. He's trying to keep that in mind. He just can't save everyone, it's not possible, and he can't fault himself for that. He'll have to stick with faulting himself for everything else.

Lou leans out the kitchen window. "George! Have you seen Lux?"

Harry's heart jumps into his throat. He swallows it. "I haven't!" he calls back. "I was hoping you'd know!"

Lou frowns. "Damn."

"Why don't you and Tom and I look for her?" Harry asks, pulling at a hopeful thread.

"Sure," Lou accepts, "Lord knows that girl covers enough ground for all three of us. It was easier to keep track of her when she crawled everywhere."

Harry forces himself to laugh.

"You can finish getting lunch ready, can't you, hon?" he hears Lou ask Jesy. He's busy scanning the trees for any unexpected movement.

"Of course, love." Jesy's voice is never quiet. Harry hates that, in this moment. Normally it's a comfort.

Lou ducks out the front door, wiping her hands dry on her thighs and then putting them on her hips. "Where could she have gone?" she mutters. "Tom's in the shed, I think."

"Groovy, let's round him up." Harry's adrenaline is beginning to kick in. He's on high alert.

"You look tense," Lou notices, her arm coming around his waist. She looks up at him like she wants to test his temperature with the back of her hand.

"It's just hot outside," Harry lies. "Come on, let's get looking."

Tom is indeed in the shed, measuring lumber. He was the first person here who really opened up to Harry. He's getting too caught up in memories when he should be focusing on _now_.

"Hey, folks," Tom says, leaning the saw against the wood. Good. No one can rightfully claim he had a weapon if there aren't tools in his hands. "What are you doing?"

"Lux has flown the coop again," Lou says, shaking her head.

"That girl," says Tom with clear fondness, the love visible in his eyes. He's a good father. "She could travel the world on those little stumpy legs of hers."

"I hope not," Lou says, shuddering. "Rather she stay right here."

"You and me both," Tom mutters, shaking his head. "We going on a search for her, then?"

Lou nods and holds out her elbow.

And a crash sounds from the house.

"Shit," Harry bites out automatically, even as Lou glances to the open door of the shed with mild interest.

"Did someone drop something?" she wonders aloud.

There's a scream.

"Is there a fire?" Tom asks, and takes two steps towards the house. "Lux – "

"There's a root cellar," Harry blurts. He doesn't know what else to do, he was supposed to have more time – but he wasn't supposed to have as much time as he had. He wasn't supposed to have any of this. "It's not visible from the house, it's covered over with bushes, but if you know it's there – you have to go there."

"Why?" Lou asks. "What's happening, George?"

"It doesn't matter – you just have to go," Harry says firmly, shaking his head and taking a step forward, urging Lou toward the cellar. "I'll find Lux, it'll be all right. It'll be okay, but you have to go, _now_."

Lou and Tom share a look. There's more shouting from the house and the sound of glass breaking.

"Please," Harry begs. "Please, just go find the root cellar, Jade, Perrie, and Amir are down there already; I'll bring you Lux, just _keep them there_."

"Okay, okay, George," Tom says. There's no time, there's no time at all. "What's going on?" He's moving, though, at least he's moving, his arm at Lou's waist.

"I'll tell you later!" Harry calls, already running towards the house. "Just go!"

He has to trust that they've gone because he can't look back in more ways than one.

The door to the back porch is gone.

The goats' paddock, the paddock _Harry and Louis built_ , is a mess of rubble on the ground.

Again.

Last time that happened, Harry watched Louis kill with his bare hands.

He stays low as he enters the house, because he knows, he knows that even though he told Liam there weren't any guns, there are guns in this house now. Louis would be furious. Louis probably _is_ furious, probably one of the shouting voices Harry could hear from the shed.  
He doesn't want to be there, but he has to do reconnaissance. He has to know who's here besides Liam, what angles they're taking. He has to find Lux.

Instead of finding anything, all that meets Harry is chaos and an empty room.

"Fuck," he grunts, and he doesn't like the word, guttural and utterly meaningless as he walks through the room, crunching on broken glass and tableware.

There's food all over the floor. Chairs knocked down, clearly in a panic as people tried to escape. Harry can hear boots stomping on the creaky stairs, in the corridors. Everyone must have split up.

Harry hopes the five Tomlinsons have, too. The longer it takes to round people up, the longer he'll have to get them _out_.

He doesn't even know where to start looking for Lux, and – did they have a plan, was there a plan in case this ever happened – where would Louis go if they all split up, does he have time to say goodbye –

Harry takes a deep breath. He's getting away from himself. He needs to focus.

If he can find anyone else, he can tell them where to go. Anyone who's eluded the team. Who is the team, anymore, when Harry isn't on it? Liam will be here. Liam would need tactical, that's James Hensley, he'll be here, hand-to-hand might be James Hamblett, two Jameses, they were new, called Hamblett by 'JJ' to tell them apart –

Doesn't matter. Not what he needs to concentrate on. Find someone, find anyone. He's not looking for anybody named James.

He's looking out for them, though. Being without boots is a blessing, and knowing where all of the spots the floor creaks is a saving grace.

A noise. A person. Friend or foe? It's – Harry can't think about how he's thinking of his old partner as a foe right now. He can't think about that.

Harry edges towards the cupboard where they keep extra blankets, unneeded in the summer.  
"Leigh-Anne?"

Silence, so long that he wonders if he'd imagined it.

"George?"

"Yeah, it's me." Harry moves aside a brown-and-orange blanket. "Are you hurt?"

"I knew I recognized you," Leigh-Anne says, her voice hard and quiet. "I _knew_ I'd seen you before."

"Are you hurt?" Harry asks more insistently, keeping an eye out for flashes of black clothing. "Can you walk?"

"No thanks to your friends."

"I know. I know, I know." Harry shakes his head. "I know. You can hate me all you want. There's a root cellar, can't see it from the house, but you'll find it if you're looking for it. There's shrubbery covering it. Can you make it there?"

"Why should I?" Leigh-Anne asks. "So you can shoot me when my back's turned?"

Harry closes his eyes. "I wasn't there when that happened. I was – I was in the other room. With the kids."

"And I should trust you?" It's vicious, and it hurts, and he deserves every word.

"For the next... ten minutes," Harry says. "If the root cellar isn't where I'm saying, then come back. Come back and – kill me, if you want, do whatever you like, because I would have failed you. But just trust me enough to go look for it, and if it's there, _stay in it_ until I come get you. There's water and food and Jade."

He pauses. "And Perrie and the baby. You can think – you can think what you want, and I probably deserve it. But I wouldn't put a baby in harm's way."

Leigh-Anne doesn't say another word as she unfolds herself from behind the blankets. Harry guards her with his own body long enough to make sure the coast is still clear, and then he points her out the back door. She's silent as she runs, skirt hiked up over her knees, used to having to get away.

And it's Harry's fault. Again.

She'll find the cellar. And with Jade inside, she'll stay there.

There's a slam above him and renewed screaming. Harry can hear Niall's brogue and the sound of wood on bone, like he's using his cane as a club.

He has to find Lux before she gets mixed up in this.

If he were a toddler, where would he go? Lux doesn't like loud noises, so she wouldn't be where the fighting is if she could help it. Even when there's a summer storm, when the twins are out jumping around, at the first sound of thunder, Lux–

Lux hides under the porch.

"Harry! Hello, Harry? Can you hear me?"

Liam's voice. There's no time. There's no fucking _time_.  
It's been so long since Harry was called by his name that it startles him so badly he feels sick. _Please don't let Louis find out like this_.

But it's not Louis struggling behind Liam when he enters the room. Struts into the room is more like it, like he owns this house. Harry remembers when Liam's confidence was something he found admirable.

It's not Louis. But Harry doesn't feel less sick to see that it's Niall.

He's not struggling so much as he is bumping down the stairs sickly where Liam's dragging him, eyes fluttering under blond hair soaked in blood.

"What the hell did you do to him?" Harry asks after he swallows the lump of immediate terror that comes to his throat at the sight of Niall so still. "Can he even stand on his own?"

"He had a weapon," Liam says. "You told me none of them did."

"He has a _cane_ ," Harry emphasizes, "because he needs help walking. It's not a weapon; it's what any man would defend himself with if someone came at him who had a gun."

Liam's impassive. Professional. Dependable. It's what made him a good partner and what makes Harry despise him right now. "He raised it as a weapon. I neutralized the threat. And I need you to help me get him to a car."

"I'll take him," Harry says. Volunteers. "I can get him on my own, it's not a problem. You can try to find the others." He steps forward and ducks to get Niall's arm slung over his shoulder. "Try not to concuss any of them," he adds, harsh, biting. Liam's just doing his job. If Harry was him, he might've done the same. He'll never know.

Harry lifts Niall easily, they're all thin. They're all too thin for this.

"George," Niall says faintly, blood-flecked spit on his lips. His eyes are rolling a little in their sockets. "That you?"

"Yeah, Nialler," Harry whispers, and he feels so guilty that it's right he has Niall's blood all over his hands. This is his fault.

Niall just laughs. He sounds drunk, but not like Niall-drunk, happy and looking for Zayn. He sounds like his brain's only half-on. "Your brother's a mean one, George."

"I'm so sorry, Niall." Harry feels like crying, like shouting, like running far away. "I didn't mean for this."

Niall isn't listening. Harry isn't sure Niall is awake, but he's breathing. Harry is gentler with him when he puts Niall in the back of a car than Liam would have been, gentle when he straightens out Niall's broken knee. It moves like a hinge rusted shut, no knob shape of a patella under Harry's fingers. Niall didn't need more of this.

It's all his fault. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget that all of this was his fault. From the broken plates in the kitchen to the blood on Niall's face, he did this. He might as well have been wielding the club.

Harry rubs his face. The copper smell of pennies, like the dollhouse he and Louis made, gets on his skin.

Lux. He has to find Lux.

If his instincts are right, she'll be under the porch, like this is any old storm. It's the only place he can think of.

There are men on the porch, though, and Harry can't just approach like he's on the other side. He swears, darts into a thicket of trees, watches. Waits.

"–get your _fucking hands off of me_ –"

Jesy. She won't go down without a fight, even if this is an occasion where she should.

"Jesy!" One of the twins, Daisy, Harry thinks, but it's hard to tell from this distance. Hensley's carrying her in one arm and hauling Jesy forward with the other locked around her wrists, like he hadn't thought he'd need cuffs with a woman.

Harry can't help smirking. Hensley doesn't know Jesy.

He nearly winces himself when Jesy's leg comes up behind her in a brutal kick that sends Hensley scrambling, cursing as Jesy grabs for Daisy. "Run!" she instructs in a hoarse screech that makes the hair stand up on the back of Harry's neck. "You have to run, Daisy!"

Daisy hesitates for just a moment before Hensley starts standing and Jesy breaks out of his hold long enough to shove Daisy's shoulders towards the door. "Go, sweetie, go find Louis!"

That makes Daisy scamper, her tiny blonde head bobbing out of sight as she listens to Jesy's authoritative tone. No matter what she's been told, Harry hopes Daisy doesn't find Louis. He'll be the one they have the most men on.

But if Louis can't see her again – just to say goodbye –

Harry doesn't want more blood on his hands.

Jesy doesn't seem to share the same concern though, now that she's free. Harry's seen agents at the training gym less talented at landing a right hook than she is.

He doesn't know where she's trained or if she's trained by anyone but herself, but she's holding her own against Hensley, who Harry _knows_ has had training from some of the best. He's glad he's not the one having to defend against her.

Hensley fights like the professional he is, and he's all defense, just trying to get her to stop fighting him – but Jesy is tooth and nail, Jesy is years of peaceful living and keeping her anger tamped down spewing out all at once, Jesy is a whirl of patchwork skirt and long hair and rage.

Harry's frightened of her and he's at least twenty feet away. She's deadly like this.

Harry's glad. She'll keep them busy until she physically can't anymore.

It might be enough for some of the others to be able to get away. A faint hope, but it's all he's got.  
Louis' had tactical training, too. Zayn, probably, since they served together. If Jesy had Daisy, maybe they were smart and split up the girls. Protocol is different around children. It'd be the smart choice.

It looks like Hensley's finally bested Jesy by grabbing her hair – a dirty move, but Harry supposes you don't fight fair against criminals.

"Get off me!" she struggles but he's practically lifting her off her feet just by her hair. "Fucking pig!"

In a move Harry might be impressed by if he didn't want to yank out Hensley's teeth individually, he manages to get both of Jesy's arms behind her and cinch them tightly. "You're not going anywhere," Hensley says, short of breath. "Give it up." He pants twice and then recites, “Jessica Nelson. You are under arrest for conspiracy to destroy federal property, destruction of private property, destruction of federal property, unlawful detonation of explosives, illegal possession of dynamite, mob action, disorderly conduct, and seven counts of criminally negligent homicide. You have the right to remain -- ”

"Fuck you," Jesy spits, but has no choice other than to be frog-marched off the porch.

_Holy shit_. Jesy is Jessica Nelson? She’s been wanted by the FBI since the ‘70 bombings that took out a string of ROTC buildings in --

Palo Alto. Fuck, _Perrie_. Stanford. Is that how they met Jade, too?

Holy shit, Harry’s fucked _Jessica Nelson_.

He’s so gobsmacked he can’t even move for a beat, but this is Harry's only chance. Everyone will be tiring inside, starting to get shuffled out the doors, too. He races for the house and drops to his knees, army-crawling through the hole in the porch. Woe betide him if there's only a raccoon down here and he ends up with rabies, too.

But there are no raccoons. There's a tear-stained face on a tiny body, sniffling and dirty, and Lux's whole face crumples when she sees him.

"Dorge," she whimpers. "Dorge."

"Hi, sweetie," Harry whispers, tears filling his own eyes. "How'd you get here?"

"Ghosts," Lux sobs. "Ghosts hurt!"

The goats. Harry hadn't even thought – he hopes they're not all dead. "It's okay, Luxie, it'll be okay," he murmurs, holding out his hand. "You need to come here, okay, Lux? It's important."  
And Lux comes. Lux trusts. Still.

"I'm about to run, okay?" Harry says. He keeps his eyes locked with Lux's, to make sure she's paying attention. "I know it's hard, and it's scary. I need you to not make any noise, okay? Okay, Lux?"

"Okay, Dorge," she murmurs, and Harry peeks out from under the porch to make sure they're still alone. There's only a disconcerting, eerie silence, the team upstairs probably converging on their next target. Harry wonders who's left. He crawls out from under the porch and Lux follows. Harry swings her up into his arms – _uppy, uppy_ – and holds her face to his chest so she can't see the wreckage of the goats' pen as he starts to run full-speed towards the root cellar.  
He's not in the same shape as he used to be, and there's a stitch in his side by the time he reaches the door, but he makes it. He can make sure that Lux is safe.

The root cellar smells like fear when he opens the hatch and starts to scramble down the slick steps, Lux still cradled to his chest. Before he's halfway down the stairs, Lou's hands reach up through the dark for her daughter.

"Keep her here," Harry says, breathing hard enough that it's noisy. "Keep everyone here. _Do not come out_. Just stay here, please."

"Why should we trust you?" Perrie asks, her eyes filled with tears. All Harry can see of Amir is a fluff of dark hair against her shirt. "Leigh-Anne told us everything. You told them where we are. You told them what Zayn – what you boys did to get Louis' sisters."

"I didn't tell them; they knew already." Harry looks over his shoulder. "There's no time. In here, you'll be safe. Please, just, just stay here. I can't do anything. There's no time. Just, you have to _stay here_."

"Why, so they can kill us more neatly?" Jade asks, vibrating with anger. "Wounded Knee not satisfy you?"

It's all angry, betrayed faces, and Harry deserves every bit of it. "This cellar wasn't on the blueprint," he says bluntly. "Nobody has any idea it exists. I didn't until Louis showed it to me. They won't unless they _see me coming out of it_."

Lou holds Lux close, swaying with her like she's still Amir's size. She sighs heavily, her eyes falling shut. "I think we should trust him."

"Please," Harry bites out. "They have guns. Stay down here where it's safe, where the kids'll be as safe as they can be. Please."

"We've lived with him for a year," Lou says. "I think... he brought us all down here unhurt. Let's just wait it out. I don't need Lux to see it."

There's a tense silence and Harry is desperate to go, to leave, but – for some reason he needs their approval. He needs to know that they'll stay here.

"I'll stay with you," Tom tells Lou. He puts his arm around her and Lux reaches for him, latching onto his thumb with her whole hand.

"Fine," Jade says, the word sharp and spiky. "I'll stay. As long as you leave."

Harry nods, looks at his feet. "I'm going. I'm gonna – everyone will be fine. I promise. I'll try to make sure everyone leaves free."

There's no reassurance on their faces. No trust. He's lost that.

"Dorge," Lux mumbles around her thumb. Well, he's lost most of it.

"It'll be okay, Lux," Harry whispers, his throat dry. Niall's blood is still on his face. "Love you."

"Luvviyoo, Dorge," she replies. She has no idea what's going on around her, but it's alright. She still loves him.

He keeps that, tucks it tight inside him as he turns to go back up the stairs.

He'll show them all that he still deserves it. He'll make this right. It might take time, but he'll make this right.

He checks to make sure there's nobody looking before he slips out of the cellar and lets the door close behind him. There. Now they'll be safe.

Harry circles the house as far as he can through the woods, anything to approach from an angle that won't lead Liam's men to the hatch.

"Find Styles!" he hears someone shout. He doesn't know how many of the others they've pinned down, but if they're looking for him, it can't be good.

He darts across to the goat paddock, as good an excuse as any to be –

Petunia is shaking, peering up at Harry with an eye panic-edged in white. There's blood all over her muzzle and silky ears.

She's alive, but Harry has to wonder how many of the others were needlessly slaughtered.

He kneels by the wood that he'd so painstakingly cut and hammered and worked side-by-side with Louis to build. It's irreparable. He moves a plank off of her side and she scrambles up onto spindly legs and headbutts him lightly in the shoulder.

"Hi, girl," he murmurs, rubbing her neck. "Where's your mama?"

She bleats at him wordlessly, and he's imagining it, he knows he is, but it looks like her eyes are filled with reproach.

"I know," he says quietly. "I know."

He keeps one hand on her just to feel a heartbeat as he digs through the rubble with his other hand, searching for Molly.

He finds her. But unlike Petunia, she'll never be able to look at him reproachfully again. He hopes the twins didn't see it happen.

Harry leans over the wood he's freed and is sick in heaves that roil his whole body.

He bands an arm around his stomach, shuddering as he clenches his hand on the ground, probably gaining a few dozen splinters as he does. Petunia butts her head against his shoulder.  
Everything is wrong, and he isn't helping anyone. He's helpless.

He might as well be one of these goats. He should wait here for someone to put him out of his misery.

He slumps and holds onto Petunia's thin neck, hugging her as he hides his face in his hands.  
Just a minute. One minute to grieve for George.

He counts out the seconds and when he pulls back, his face is dry. He has to be Harry now. He has to do this.

He heads back to the house and walks through the yawning space where the porch door used to be. All of Jesy's wind chimes are smashed on the floor.

"No, no! Please!" _Daisy_.

"Leggo!" And Phoebe-Sunshine. Harry's heart hurts.

In the big front room, Louis is guarding all four of his sisters, backed into a corner and holding them behind him with outstretched arms as Liam advances, weapon drawn.

"Stand down," Liam instructs, his arm rock steady. Of course it is; even on his worst day, Liam would never want to shoot a _child_. He's not a monster, even though they must think of him as one. He's just a man doing his job.

" _You can't have them_ ," Louis growls, eyes flashing.

" _Stand down_ or I am authorized to fire my weapon," Liam says. Harry's own life nearly flashes before his eyes, seeing a gun trained on Louis' head. He can see for the first time that Louis is wielding a broken-off piece of wood like a broken beer bottle. Liam would see that as a weapon.

Daisy clings to Louis' waist. "Don't let them take us!"

Even Lottie is cowering behind Louis, holding onto Fizzy's shoulders, keeping her propped up on unsteady legs. Phoebe is sobbing into Louis' ribs.

Liam takes another step forward and Louis looks murderous.

"Louis," Harry says, throat dry. No one can hear him. He tries again, "Louis. Louis, give me the – " It's a piece of their dollhouse. "Give me the chimney."

Liam wouldn't shoot Louis to kill; he'd shoot to get Louis to stand down, in the arm or the leg or the shoulder. He's a good shot, Liam. He wouldn't miss. Probably.

But the girls are too close, and the idea of anyone else being hurt – Harry might be sick again.  
He edges closer, holding out his hand. "Louis, give me the chimney."

"I can't do that, George," says Louis, scratchy and fierce. Always defending what's his.

"Louis, he might hurt your sisters by accident," Harry pleads. "Just give it to me."

Louis' hand wavers. Liam's does not. He must think Harry has an angle here, but all he has is desperation. "He can't take them," Louis says. Pleads.

"It's gonna be okay," Harry says, taking another two steps closer. His hand touches the wood of the broken dollhouse chimney, but Louis hasn't let go. "Let me take it."

He pulls and the wood slips out of Louis' hand. Because he trusts George, and he thinks Harry is George.  
Harry can't watch what will happen next. So instead he raises the wood and takes three steps towards Liam, all eyes trained on him. All guns trained on him.

Liam won't shoot him. But he will take 'George' in and put him in one of the cars outside so they don't break cover, and Louis will never have to know that the man he loves is scum.

He lifts his hand to show the wood clearly and then bends, keeping his eyes on Liam, as he sets it on the ground.

Everything after that happens too quickly for Harry to keep up.

Liam barks to Cuthbert to take him in and Harry gets a convincing whack across the back of the shoulders that takes him down to his knees with surprise.

His arms are wrenched behind him tight, and he's marched toward the front door without any further commentary.

He can hear all five Tomlinsons screaming behind him and Harry closes his eyes tightly, willing himself not to cry.

"You're finished here, Styles," Cuthbert mutters to him. "You're going home."

"Yeah," Harry whispers.

"That was convincing, back there." Cuthbert sounds appreciative. "How'd you get him to trust you like that?"

Harry's throat feels like he's been eating sandpaper. "That was my job, wasn't it?" he croaks.

"Well, good on you... _George_ ," Cuthbert snickers, and deposits Harry in the back of one of the cars for authenticity.

Harry watches through the tinted window as four squalling, fighting, sobbing, sullen Tomlinson sisters are carried out of the house by agents in their riot gear. Daisy is biting, Phoebe-Sunshine kicking, Fizzy pounding her fists. Lottie walks like she's on her way to the gallows, and they might all be.

Louis is nowhere. Harry's heart speeds.

And then Louis comes, not fighting, not fussing. He's just letting Liam take him in. Seeing Harry – seeing George be taken down must've sapped him of the last of his spunk.

He looks like a man who's given up. Who has nothing left.

Liam has Louis' arms torqued up behind him in cuffs, head down. There are bruises on his face, but he isn't bleeding or broken. He isn't dead.

He isn't dead.

It's some of the only good news Harry has had all day.

He has no idea what happened to Zayn, whether it was the same fate as Niall or – or worse. Whether he's left Amir without a father.

Harry rubs his knuckles against his eyes. Almost a year. He made it almost a year.

Almost a year of being happy.

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


	13. Chapter Thirteen

"Styles!" Supervisory Special Agent Nicholas Grimshaw leans out of his office. "Harry? Harry Styles – in my office."

Harry sighs. He's been avoiding Nick (as much as it's possible to avoid Nick – when Nick wants to talk to you, it's pretty hard to keep him from doing that) but there's no way to avoid him when he's your superior officer. And Harry knows that. He's still hoped.

He doesn't smile at Harry as he holds the door open for him to pass through and take a seat. Nick _always_ smiles at Harry, even when he probably shouldn't, like when they're being briefed on Cuba or Iran.

"Sit down," Nick offers. Doesn't offer. Orders. Because when it comes down to it, Nick isn't his friend, not in this building. Nick is his boss.

It still feels strange to affect good posture in these uncomfortable chairs. Harry had become too used to sprawling on floors or sitting on raggedy beanbags. His backaches have come back with a vengeance.

Nick doesn't sit down at his desk. Instead, he leans against it, arms folded across his chest, looking down at Harry with a slight frown. He doesn't say anything. It's not like Nick.

The pleat down Harry's regulation trousers is uneven. He fiddles with the crease over his knee and doesn't quite look at Nick.

"Tomlinson's been asking for you," Nick says, finally, a note of something odd in his voice. "Says he wants to talk to George. That was your cover name while you were there, right?"

"Yeah," Harry says. "I mean, yes, sir."

"I thought so," Nick says, and there's a little smirk, finally. "You were Giorgio in Chicago last year, too. Favor the name?"

Harry shrugs his shoulders, partially to relieve some of the stress on his back. His neck is aching. "Simple, forgettable."

"Well, not to Tomlinson, evidently." Nick leans back in his chair and puts his feet up on his desk. His ankles are skinny where they peek out between his ultra-shiny black shoes and his regulation black trousers.

"I wasn't exactly supposed to be forgettable to him," says Harry carefully. "He had to trust me."

"You achieved that," Nick says, and he sounds impressed and – something else. There's a long silence as he watches Harry fiddle with the knee of his pants before he offers, a non sequitur, "Didya know that I knew J. Edgar Hoover?"

"Uh. No, sir, I didn't." Harry's not entirely sure what that has to do with his mission. "He retired the year I was made a probie; I never met him."

"Yeah, I don't suppose you would've. He never spoke at the Academy when you were there?" Nick shakes his head. "You probably slept through it. I don't blame you. Unless it was one of his cocktail parties, he wasn't much for laughs."

Harry frowns. He has the distinct feeling that he's supposed to be understanding more of this conversation than he is. "Did he have many cocktail parties, sir?" he ventures.

An imperceptible wash of nostalgia clouds Nick's eyes for just a moment. "Some, yeah. Not for the whole department. Just a few of us, you know. I was young, you know, still sat out in the nosebleed desks where you and Payne are now."

"Hey," Harry mutters.

Nick isn't quite smiling, but he's definitely not frowning. "He was a good man. Made some mistakes, and he'd not likely admit to them. But he was a good man. He was nice to me."

"Okay," Harry says slowly. "Sir." He pauses. "What does that have to do with Tomlinson, sir?"

"I'm inclined to let you have the one-on-one interrogation you've been asking for," says Nick without bothering to answer Harry's question. "It might not be in my best interest, but I'm inclined to give it to you."

"Oh," Harry says. "Thank you, sir." He half-moves to stand, but then sits again. "If I can ask, sir, why?"

"Stop calling me sir before I break out in hives." Nick rolls his eyes. Very unprofessional. After a few days back with Liam, a little unprofessionalism is a relief. "I think it's pretty obvious. He won't talk to us, but he'll talk to you. And we need to know what we're looking at."

"Right," Harry says softly. "Sir–sorry–SSA Grimshaw, erm. I just think... that Louis, Tomlinson, he might... I might not be able to prove any kind of lawbreaking. Per se."

Nick barely blinks. "That's the sort of thing we'll need to know. I don't want you try to prove that he's guilty – I want you to try to prove whatever the truth is. You're a good agent. You'll do your job."

Harry looks down at his hands, his stomach writhing in guilt. "Sir? Sorry. SSA Grimshaw, can I ask you a question?"

"You can," Nick accepts. "I live to answer questions. Highlight of my day."

Harry is quiet, though, as he tries to weigh out the words he can use to ask his question and sieve away the ones he can't. "My mom always said that fairytales were based on what people thought was already true. And erm, you know, training to go undercover, you always pick the identities that are a little true enough to still play them. But, um, they're different, aren't they? Because fairytales have happy endings, and... well, I guess usually UC does, too, because the bad guy goes to jail, but –"

"People don't live in fairytales." Nick's mouth is doing that twitchy smiley thing again. "Sometimes there is no happy ending. Sometimes, at the end of the day, you just have to feel that doing your job right is the happiest ending you're gonna get."

"What if it's not?" Harry can't look up. "Can I ask, sir, where Tomlinson's sisters are now?"

"As far as I know, they've been returned to their mother," Nick replies. "They were dropped off back at home yesterday."

"Even the twins?" Harry chances a glance at the desk. Nick's taken his feet down from it. "They've never met her; she's like a stranger to them."

"And that's why Tomlinson is here, isn't it?" Nick asks.

Harry swallows. It hurts his throat. "I suppose," he murmurs.

"You know, Styles, I think sometimes with this job, you have to make choices about what the real happy ending would be. And they aren't going to be popular. People will think you've made your mistakes, but if you know you haven't, then you're still a good man."

"But how will I know if I'm in the right?" Harry looks up, wishing he could use his hair as a shield, but it's cut short again. He misses the way it made the back of his neck itch.

"If you're protecting American citizens, it's right. The good of the many over the needs of a few," Nick says. "Break it down to numbers if you have to. That's, you know, old J. Edgar did a lot of unpopular things, but that's what he taught me and it's worked alright for us so far."

"The good of the many over the needs of a few," mutters Harry. "I understand, sir."

Nick nods. "I'll give you that solo interview then. And I'll babysit Payne so he stays out of your way."

"I appreciate it." Harry smiles. Liam's a great partner, and a great person, but Harry hasn't forgotten that it was Liam who was there the night that Louis was taken into custody. He's been Harry's partner for years, and Harry considers him a friend, but it's hard to forget the sound of the twins screaming as the agents set upon the house.

"You don't have to appreciate it, you just need to do your job," Nick says, but this time, he's smiling. "Go on."

"Now?" Harry asks, already rising from his seat. "Is he in the same room as yesterday?"

"He's been there since we brought him in," Nick confirms. "Won't say a word until you're there. Or, rather, until _George_ is there. Seems to think you're hurt."

"He didn't–? No, he wouldn't have seen," Harry mutters, shaking his head. "I'm not so sure he'll say anything, anyway, once he... understands what happened."

Nick leans across his desk, eyes serious. "Then make him understand."

"Yes, sir." It's automatic. "I'll need to be alone with him, though. Nobody in the control room, either. He's good at reading people, he'll be able to tell if I'm lying."

"I told you I'd keep a leash on Payne." Nick waves his hand, dismissive. "Go."

Harry goes.

It's still bizarre how foreign the office is to him now, people bustling everywhere, papers ruffling, suits and ties and short hair. He's still not used to it. The ache in his chest makes him wonder if he'll ever be used to it again.

What's worse is that he can see through it. The papers shuffling with offenses and rules and no stories behind them, like lives can be lived in monochrome. There are laws that are wrong, in the right circumstances, and wrongs that are right.

But this is his life. It's what he always knew he'd come back to, and now he has to lie in the bed he's built for himself.

But he doesn't want it. He's been lying awake and uncomfortable, suffocating under the fluff of a mattress and comforter before wandering his apartment at night. He wakes up on the kitchen floor.

He has to take a breath at the door of the interrogation room. He's not planning on doing any interrogating, so it doesn't seem an apt name. He twists the handle.

Louis doesn't look over. "I'm not saying anything until you tell me what happened to George."

"Louis," Harry says quietly. He's afraid his voice won't work at all, but it does.

Louis jumps, tries to stand, and stumbles where his shackles hold his wrists to the table.

His face is filled with so much light, desperate hope when he looks over that Harry can hardly bear it. It all freezes when he sees Harry's face. Clean-shaven, hair that doesn't even touch his collar, all dressed up in a suit and tie with his shoes shined black.

Harry wants to die.

The universe is broken, and the floor cracks open between them with a chasm that Harry doesn't think he can ever cross. Even as he watches, a reel of film like a flickering slideshow pans behind Louis' eyes and erases, pulling Harry – pulling George – out of every frame, every happy memory, every moment of love until there's nothing left but aching empty blackness and the ghost of someone who never existed.

"Oh," says Louis, flat. His eyes go dull, a color that's usually thrashing sea fading to the blue of a dead fish washed up on the beach. It's odd, how one syllable can sound like a death knell.

"Louis, I –"

"Bet your wife's glad to have you home," Louis says, pulling himself up as best he can. Shoulders square. Defensive. "Do the little ones even remember Daddy after so long?"

"Not married." Harry closes the door behind him. He can do this. He has to. "No kids. Just parents and a sister."

Louis laughs once, cold and derisive. "You'll have to forgive me if I don't buy an ounce of the shit you're selling."

"I'd forgive you anything," Harry says, with as much aching honesty as he can muster. "I don't expect you to believe me. But it's just me, now. Nobody behind the curtain." He gestures to the two-way glass window taking up one wall.

Louis sits back in his chair. The heels of his boots thump decisively against the floor.

Harry makes his way to the chair across from him and sits, his hands flat on the table. He turns them palm up. Plaintive. "My name is Special Agent Harry Styles," he says. Best to start with the important things.

"Good for you." Louis isn't impressed.

"I was assigned a pseudonym to go undercover and investigate a suspected cult facility in New Hampshire, where the agency was concerned a man was coercing people to stay with him in a farmhouse." Harry swallows. His throat is dry. "I was supposed to be there a month or two at most."

"Sounds like you're shit at your job then." Louis' boots clunk against the floor again.

"I am," Harry says. Again, with the honesty. "I used to be really, really good at it. Me and my partner had one of the highest closed cases rates in our unit."

The impassive woodenness of Louis' face makes Harry's throat close up, a lump forming where he refuses to cry.

Not yet, anyway. He just – if he can just explain it right –

He can make this work. This has to work.

"I didn't expect to love you," he whispers. The burning in his throat hurts more than being shot. "That's not how it was supposed to work. It's not how I was supposed to work."

"Fuck off," Louis mutters. "You got what you came for. I'm in here, and you probably got a promotion. Did they give you hazardous duty pay for getting fucked by a fairy?"

"Don't–" Harry stops himself. He takes a shaky breath. "They don't know," he murmurs. "I didn't mention. It wasn't, it's not – it's not theirs. It's mine."

"Oh, yeah, probably fire you instead," Louis mutters. "Dishonorable discharge or something."

"I never served. For obvious reasons." Harry clears his throat again. "It wasn't a job," he says as firmly as he can. "I didn't do it because it was part of my job. I did it because it felt good, and you felt good, and I wanted to."

"Good for you," Louis says again, but this time he just sounds tired. "Get it all out of your system before you came home to be groomed for the big chair, then."

"You know me better than anybody else," Harry replies. " _Me_. You tell me if you really think I could ever get you out of my system."

Louis' throat worked, the muscle in the side of his jaw clenching and releasing. "How the fuck would I know, Geo–whoever you are. I don't know a goddamn thing about you."

"You know everything about me that matters." He's getting somewhere, he just knows it. "I lied about my name and where I came from. The rest was me. You got me, Louis."

"You know, thinking back, I knew something was wrong with you," Louis says, and his chest caves.

"You probably should have," Harry admits. "I did a fairly terrible job of maintaining cover. I guess I don't like lying to the people I love. Never been a strength of mine."

" _Will you stop that?_ " Louis hisses. "Will you – I'm not that stupid, it's not going to work."

"I'm not trying to work you." Harry leans as close to Louis as he can with a table between them. "I'm telling you the truth. What do I have to gain from this?"

"A hell of a lot more than I do," Louis mutters. "And thanks for that, by the way. Where are my sisters?"

"The bureau returned them to your mother's house," says Harry, his brain working feverishly to try to figure out a way to make this right. "I didn't know until twenty minutes ago."

"Fantastic, well. Can I request someone more competent than you to investigate their murder, then?"

"They're not going to be there long," Harry says. It clicks. They can't stay there, not safely, and they don't deserve to be under a roof with a man who's injured them all in the past. He's a federal agent, now.

He has his gun back.

"You're not arresting my mother," Louis asks, his face aghast. "She didn't do anything, you pig!"

"Of course I'm not arresting your mother. She hasn't done anything wrong. Neither have you; the only charges leveled against you are those by your stepfather." Harry swallows the lump in his throat. "If he's no longer accusing you of anything, you walk."

Louis snorts. "And he's stupid too, ladies and gentlemen! That's never gonna happen. He doesn't like to lose."

"He probably doesn't like getting shot, either." Harry meets Louis' eyes. He has no idea what's showing in his. "Can't always get what you want."

Louis' jaw tics. "Trying to add another count of criminal conspiracy?"

"We never had this conversation." Harry's fist clenches on the table and he makes it relax. "If he's out of the picture, they can't hold you. I already said you weren't complicit in any crimes on my watch. Can't arrest someone if they're not accused of a crime."

" _Then why am I here, George_?" Louis finally explodes. "If you didn't turn me in, then why am I here and not protecting my family?"

"I told you, because he's charged you with kidnapping the girls." Harry shakes his head. He's really glad that Nick's distracting Liam.

"How? Why would he accuse me?" Louis spits. "As far as he knows, I cracked up in Viet-fucking-nam and live as a medicated vegetable in the VA hospital!" Then Louis sits back, sucks in a breath, shakes his head. "You're clever, Special Agent Harry Styles. I never told George that part."

"Because I'm very bad at my job when I've been out of practice." Harry sets his face. "Nobody saw you. But they saw me. When we went to Connecticut. They matched the description."

Louis smiles thinly. "What a lucky coincidence."

"It's my fault you're here," Harry says. "I'm sorry. I don't expect your forgiveness, or deserve it, but I am sorry. And I'm going to make it right."

Louis doesn't say anything, and that's – better. Harry presses forward, leaning across the table. "Louis, please, I'm gonna fix it for you. I love you, and I'm gonna fix it."

"Stop saying that," Louis mutters. "I don't believe you any more than I did when you sat down, suit."

"It's true." Harry wipes his mouth, wipes _Harry_ away. "I lied to you, and I'm sorry, but _all_ I lied about was my name, I never – I never lied about how I felt." He shakes his head. "Not to you."

"How am I supposed to believe you, _Harry_?" His name's never been said with such vitriol. "Sitting there with your haircut and your shirt buttoned, straight-laced like you've never even heard of people like me. Like you're better than me. You disgust me."

"I'm not better than you – god!" Harry tears at his necktie so quickly it chokes him. He pulls buttons away until they ping across the cement floor. "I'm so much worse like this. Without you."

"I'm the one handcuffed to a table, darling." When Louis has called him that before, it made Harry's heart beat faster. Now, so coated in mockery, it makes him wish his heart didn't beat at all.

"That doesn't matter," Harry pleads, shaking his head. "That doesn't – that doesn't say who's better or worse or... it doesn't mean anything."

"Yeah, there's a lot of things in this room that don't mean anything, aren't there?" Louis hasn't looked away from him.

"I don't," Harry agrees, and his eyes finally well up. He doesn't stop it. "I don't mean anything, Louis, I don't, not without you. I don't think I ever did, not like... not like George."

"George never existed." Louis sounds cautious, his boot heels thumping again. "You made him up. To trick me into trusting you. There is no George."

"There is no Harry Styles," Harry whispers. He pushes his chair back slowly, slowly and moves to stand. "I don't recognize this face when I look in the mirror. I can't sleep without your smell next to me. I just wander around all night looking at all of the... shit I don't need. And nothing I do."

Louis doesn't say anything for a long moment. "You don't look right with short hair," he says. It sounds reluctant. "Like a Retriever that's been shaved to look like a Poodle."

Harry laughs through his tears, saltwater in his mouth. "I prefer being a full-on poodle."

"Which one's the act?" asks Louis, in what's practically a sing-song. "Do you even remember who you're pretending to be anymore? What you're pretending to be?"

"This suit is a costume that doesn't fit." Harry wipes his eyes and takes two steps closer around the edge of the metal table.

The way Louis is looking at him now is considering, which is better than the glares and disgust he'd been getting previously. "Look me in the eye," he says quietly, "and tell me that we weren't a lie."

Harry inches closer and leans down, hands open on the table again, face only inches from Louis'. "I never, ever lied to you about anything that mattered."

Louis' eyes close in a blink that seems like it takes ages, like he's moving in slow motion. He keeps his eyes on Harry, silent, watching him.

"That isn't a very good defense, Special Agent Harry Styles. I've heard more convincing stories out of toddlers."

"Lux is a really good liar," Harry murmurs. He doesn't move, and he doesn't break eye contact.

"And because of you, Lux is a ward of the state," Louis spits, going hard in the eyes again.

"No!" Harry assures him, kneeling. "No, I already took care of that. Lou and Tom were never taken. Or Perrie or the baby or Jade or Leigh-Anne. I hid them, Louis. In the root cellar."

"What about Zayn?" Louis asks. "Niall? Jesy? What about them? Were they so lucky, or did you arrest them as well?"

"I thought they'd let Jesy go," Harry mutters. "Did you know she was higher on the Most Wanted list than you?"

Louis actually smiles at that for a second before it disappears and he shrugs a shoulder. "She does like her explosives."

"The only real thing they can take you on is harboring a fugitive," Harry says quickly. "So don't say things like that. You never knew about her. You thought she was like Jade and Leigh, and you took her in."

"Why are you telling me this?" Louis searches his face. "It doesn't matter. It's over. You won."

"Because I love you," Harry says. "And I screwed up, but I'm gonna fix it."

"You keep saying that. It's still not true, and there's still no way for you to fix it." Louis laughs, a nasty little huff. "I guess you can't break something that never existed, though."

Harry shuffles forward on his knees. "Louis, please. I never lied to you about anything real. Only my name, and – I keep looking over my shoulder for a stranger when people ask for Harry."

"Harry is a stranger. You're a stranger to me." Louis shakes his head, even when Harry puts his hands on Louis' knees.

"No, Louis, you know me better than anyone," Harry swears. "You know me inside and out."

"I can't trust you." There's a finality to it that Harry hates, that he won't – can't – believe. "I just can't trust you."

"I did everything I could to make it better." Tears spill down Harry's cheeks. "I kept everyone safe that I could, and I'm – I'm gonna get the rest of them out of it, I'm gonna fix it. It'll be permanent, Louis, and they won't be able to touch you."

Another moment of silence. "You're a much better actor than I would've given you credit for," he murmurs. "Were you in theater?"

Harry shakes his head and laughs once, wild. "I can't act to save my own life."

A knuckle presses underneath his eye, and as rattled as he is, it takes Harry a moment to realize that both his hands are still on Louis' legs.

"I've never seen you cry before," Louis mutters. "It's... I don't like it."

The metal of Louis' shackle touches Harry's cheek and they both recoil.

Louis looks at his wrist, then at Harry, then his expression shuts down again.

Harry sniffs, turns his head. Kisses the rubbed-raw skin of Louis' wrist where the metal's been cutting into it.

Louis doesn't pull away, at least. That's something. Harry can build on something.

"I love you," Harry repeats, breathless. "I love you."

"Prove it." It doesn't sound like something Louis was planning to say, blurted out and unexpected.

"Every way I can," Harry murmurs. "I'm trying. I'm gonna fix it, Louis. I promise."

"How can you fix it? Tell me how. Tell me how you can make it so that my sisters are safe and happy and my family is together again. How can you fix that?"

Harry looks down at Louis’ thigh, running his fingers over the material of the worn jeans. "If I don't tell you, you won't have to lie when you're interrogated for real."

"A likely story," Louis says under his breath. "How do I even know that there's really nobody behind that glass?"

Harry bites his lip, shuffling even closer. He nuzzles at Louis' jeans. "We're alone, I promise."

"What are you doing?" Louis asks. He's not pulling away, and he hasn't kneed Harry in the face yet. Both good signs.

"I'm proving we're alone," Harry murmurs. "I'm proving you can trust me. I'm gonna make it better."

He moves one of his hands up higher on Louis' leg, his fingertips playing at the zipper, head resting on Louis' thigh as he pulls it down.

Louis just watches, staring down at Harry. The smell of him is so familiar when his jeans open that Harry might start crying again.

"What are you going to do?" Louis asks again, but softer.

Harry licks his lips. The curve of Louis' cock is perfect in his hand as he gently pulls him from his jeans, still half-soft. "I'm gonna make it better."

One of Louis' hands cups Harry's chin. "You left last time you tried doing that," he says.

"I'm not going to leave you again," Harry whispers.

"You will." Louis sounds certain of that.

"No." Harry gives Louis' cock a slow stroke, urging it to harden. "I love you."

Louis still doesn't say it back, not that Harry was expecting him to. He does, however, shift in his seat, his legs spreading wider to accommodate Harry between them.

Harry lowers his head and rests a cheek against Louis' thigh as he keeps stroking over Louis' cock to bring it up hard and flushed.

It's just how he remembers even though it seems like it's been years, decades since the last time he's seen Louis like this. He's beautiful. Everything about him is so beautiful.

Louis reaches for Harry, to rest a hand on Harry's head – run his fingers through Harry's hair – but the hair is gone and his handcuffs clink against the tabletop.

But he reached for him. And that's more than Harry could ever expect.

"I love you," Harry repeats, looking up into Louis' eyes.

Still, Louis doesn't say it back. But he doesn't tell Harry that he's lying.

Harry rubs his nose and lips over the length of Louis' cock, soft skin, warm pulse. Louis.

It doesn't seem so impossible this time, to fit his mouth over the head of it, taste the salt-bitter of Louis and sex and love.

Harry actually moans at the taste of it, the feel of Louis' heartbeat touching his tongue where their pulses meet.

Louis' hips stutter. Harry can feel it, the way they twitch up toward his mouth before settling stubbornly in the chair again.

Louis still wants him. At least his body does.

"You don't have to do this." It's barely a whisper, it's so quiet, but Harry still hears him.

"I want to," Harry murmurs, slurping down on the head and taking in bitter salt. "I really, really want to."

His jaw stretches to take in more, and it's fine, amazing, wonderful even. He doesn't know what he was thinking last time.

"Harry," Louis whispers.

Harry looks up, feels drunk. "It's George."

Louis looks like he's having a religious experience, or like he's looked into the sun too long and only now realized it's too bright. "George," he corrects, soft.

Harry moans at how _right_ it feels, how right he feels for the first time in days. He sucks down on Louis' dick and takes in so much he might choke, spit getting everywhere.

"Shh, shh," Louis murmurs, touching his cheek. The chain rattles. "Not so much at once."

But Harry wants everything, wants all of it. He wants to be home again, in too deep with Louis.

He's been without too long, it's like he's a man who's been drowning taking a gasp of air. He's been pretending, fooling himself that he could live without this.

He _does_ choke, but the sound Louis makes at the flutter of Harry's throat makes it worth it even as Harry pulls away to cough.

"I told you not so much," Louis sigh, a tremble in it. "Knew you would anyway."

"Nothing's too much for you," Harry rasps. His lips are sore when he goes back down.

"Don't hurt yourself." Louis' voice sharpens, a command where it was a request. "Slow. Careful."

Harry brings a hand up to help get what he just can't seem to fit, the other hand rubbing up and down the inside of Louis' thigh.

"Like that, that's good," Louis murmurs, pleased rumbling softness now. "Just like that, babe."

It's warmer, more affectionate than Louis' tendency toward nicknames had been when Harry had arrived.

Harry hums his appreciation and Louis gasps.

It's a beautiful sound, like a song in Harry's ears. He wants to never stop hearing it, have it playing on a loop in his head.

He twists his hand, humming again. The chains rattle as Louis tries in vain to touch Harry back.

There's spit all down his chin and his mouth probably looks like he's been, well, doing exactly what he's been doing, his lips burning and chafing, but he doesn't regret it if it makes Louis trust him again.

This is the truest thing that Harry knows. He would give up everything, every ounce of dignity, everything he knows, for Louis.

And even that might not be enough, Harry knows. But he has to try. He can't just give up when he knows that to lose Louis is to lose everything that makes him _him_.

"I'm gettin' close," Louis slurs, his voice lower than a whisper.

But Harry already knew. He knows the way Louis' stomach moves, the cadence of his breath, when Harry's made him feel good.

He knows Louis down to his very core, just as Louis, even if he doesn't believe it, knows Harry.

The burst of come hits Harry's tongue before he expects it.

He swallows automatically, though he didn't have much of a choice either way as he has nowhere to spit it out. It doesn't taste as bad as he might've expected. It tastes like Louis.

He can't get all of it, a dribble of white running down the side of his chin.

It's caught before it hits his collar, Louis' finger stroking up on Harry's jaw. He holds it to Harry's lips, and Harry sucks it off without question.

He's a mess. His eyes are rimmed in red from crying and choking and the lights are too bright, making his pupils blur.

Louis isn't looking at him like he hates him anymore, though, and that's what matters.

"I love you." Harry's voice is low and broken.

He can feel Louis' fingertip touch to the corner of his mouth where the skin is reddened and raw. "I love you, too," he says, finally, his own voice wavering in and out.

"I'm gonna fix it," Harry promises. "I'm gonna make everything good again."

"I don't think you can. I think it's gone," says Louis. "But I believe you'll try."

Harry just nestles that much closer and rests his head in Louis' lap. Now, he's close enough that Louis can rest one hand on the shorn-short side of Harry's head.

"You should grow your hair out again," Louis mumbles. "They probably wouldn't like it, but it looks good on you."

"I won't be here any longer than you are," Harry whispers. It's easy here, resting at Louis' feet. "I'm going to run away with you."

"And where will we go? We can't go back to the house, now, not when it's been trampled on and everything's broken." Louis is gently petting Harry's head.

"We'll find a new house," Harry whispers. "With lots of land. And no one around for miles and miles."

"That sounds nice." Louis' tone is wistful. "I like that. No one around for miles."

Harry sighs, his eyes drooping. It's been so long since he felt safe enough to sleep.

"You look tired." Louis' thumb touches to the skin underneath Harry's eye, where dark bags have started to form. "You should go home. Get some sleep."

"I don't want to leave you."

"George," Louis says, meaningfully, "Go _home_."

Home. That's a word that doesn't mean what it meant a year ago. It means something different, and if Louis believes him, he would know that.

Harry kisses Louis' fingertips. "I'll make it right. You'll see. And I'll come back to get you."

"People like you are good at making people like me disappear." Louis' mouth twists into something ugly, a parody of a smile. "You'll try, but I just can't make myself believe it."

Harry leans up on his knees so that he can sit tall and meet Louis' eyes properly. "Louis. The next time you disappear, I'm disappearing with you. I promise."

"You promise, huh?" Louis asks. He leans his forehead against Harry's temple. "Well, you're pretty good at keeping promises."

"I am," Harry whispers. "I'm so sorry, Louis."

"Prove it," suggests Louis. His bitter smile has faded into something with hope on the edges of it. "Go home."

Harry stands and moves to exit the room, but Louis calls, "Wait."

"What?"

"Come here."

Harry approaches, and Louis – best as he can with his cuffed hands – straightens Harry's suit jacket. "You're stiff as a rod. Picture something awful before you go out there."

"Out there _is_ something awful," Harrry mutters, but he closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and thinking of unsexy things.

It's a little difficult, with the scent of Louis floating in the air around him, but knowing why he's here and the clink of Louis' manacles is enough to remind him of the bad.

"There we go," Louis says, soft and pleased. He's missed Louis being pleased with him.

Harry opens his eyes and smiles down at him. "I'll see you soon. It may be a few days. Don't let them break you or get you down."

"I'll do my best," Louis assures him. "Now go. You've probably been in here too long already, haven't you?"

Harry licks his lip. "They'll probably wonder why neither of us has any bruises. But it's alright, time-wise. They'll just think I was careful."

"The great and wonderful government of the United States of America," says Louis. "Land of the free and the home of the brave, right?"

Shame bleeds through Harry's stomach. He should have known, should have seen before it was too late. Then he could have found Louis the right way, as himself, as someone seeking out what Louis had been offering all along. Then they would have had more months together. Then they would have forever.

They can have it now, though. He's going to make sure that they can have it now, whatever he has to do to make sure that happens.

Harry bends, kisses Louis' hair one last time, taking the scent of him deep into his lungs to keep, and then leaves, slamming the interrogation room door behind him.

It's so easy, even after all this time, to slip into the skin he's supposed to be wearing. It hurts to think that he's been pretending for so long and he had no idea until he was able to breathe without wondering if the people around him could tell he wasn't like them.

Harry stalks through the cattlepen and leans in through Nick's door. "I'm heading out. See you Monday."

Nick raises an eyebrow at him, pen paused on the paperwork he's doing. "Get what you needed from the suspect?"

Harry manages not to have a heart attack. "Yes, sir."

"Good. See you first thing Monday morning." Nick leans back in his chair. "Have a good weekend, Harry."

Harry nods once and he misses the feel of his hair against his neck. The walk to the front doors seems to take ages, the linoleum flooring too hard under pinchy shined shoes. Opening the front doors onto real air is enough to bring up a longing sigh.

He has two days – two and a half if he counts the rest of today – to figure out a plan. He has to approach this with the mindset of the person he used to be rather than the person he is. Careful. Planning. This has to work.

Fortunately, until Louis, Harry was very good at his job. While he never served in the kind of station that Louis or Zayn did, and he's never been quite as prolific as Jesy, Harry does know a thing or two about – well.

He unbuttons his coat, jogging down the steps of the building. This collar has been choking him for days now. It's time to take it off again.

The tie goes sailing into a trashcan on the sidewalk. He doesn't want to wear a noose anymore.

Two buttons undone at his collar, and he feels a little more human.

His car feels like an oven after baking in the July sun all day. Harry's sweating before he even gets the key into the ignition, and he has a long drive yet to come.

He doesn't stop at his apartment first. There's not enough time, and even if there was, he doesn't need anything there. Everything he needs is back in that interrogation room waiting for him.

Or in the holster at his waist.

After so many months of reaching for it when it was gone and feeling its absence, the weight of having a gun hanging against his hip makes Harry feel off-balance and strange.

He needs it, though, and in some ways, it feels like a limb that's been reattached. He's changed so much, but he supposes parts of him will always be how they were.

For the first time, Harry wonders whether neither Zayn nor Louis really had a gun at the house. With their histories, how could they not?

If they had, Harry never knew where it was, and they didn't have time to get to it before they couldn't anymore. He doesn't doubt they would have, no matter how much they believed in peace. People do crazy things when the ones they love are threatened.

If Harry had known, he would have brought it along the last time he drove into this idyllic suburban neighborhood.

Maybe then things would never have gone wrong in the first place.

It doesn't matter. He's fixing it. He's going to fix it, and everything is going to be good again.

For Louis.

For the others, too, but Harry has to do this for Louis.

The drive to Connecticut took six hours, and the night is stormy and dark when Harry arrives. He parks alongside the fire hydrant that Niall blew open the first time they were here.

He gives himself a minute to take a breath and center himself. He's solid. He has to do this. He needs this for himself just as much as he needs it for Louis.

He's never liked stakeouts. They're a prime place to sit and be alone with your thoughts, which was never a place Harry's felt very safe.

Rather than let his thoughts get away from him, Harry dozes, never slipping so far into sleep that he couldn't be awake at a moment's notice, but enough that he's not focusing on anything in particular.

Tomlinson doesn't seem the type to take midnight walks to clear his head. Harry's got him beat to the corner, no matter what time he leaves for work.

The morning dawns bright and hot, so hot that Harry shuffles out of his jacket entirely, dropping it into the backseat.

He rolls up his sleeves, slaps each cheek once just to wake up fully, and takes the safety off his firearm.

Not long now. Not long at all.

It's still sunrise. Glare coming from the east. Harry leans across the passenger seat and cranks down the window.

Not much of a breeze, just a wisp of air past his face every few seconds. Dry and still. Good.

Louis' mother's house is still shuttered, the curtains drawn in every window. Maybe they never open: what goes on inside shouldn't be broadcast to the neighbors.

He savors the spike of anger in his stomach. He'll be able to use that if he keeps it under control.

Of the pair of them, Liam was always the better sharpshooter, but Harry can hit a slow-moving target as well as anyone in the bureau.

Harry prepares himself. He has one chance at this, and the sun is almost fully above the horizon line.

At a little after five, the front door finally opens. Tomlinson steps out, locks it behind him. He's carrying a briefcase, but his shoes say that he's on his feet all day.

One more deep breath and Harry's ready. One chance. One shot.

Tomlinson falls. Neat.

Harry rolls the car up to the house with the dead man on the front lawn. He leans out the passenger window. "You okay, sir?"

The suburbs have ears everywhere.

But Harry knew what he was doing, and the blossom of burgundy on Tomlinson's chest doesn't lie. Harry gets out, sleeves still rolled, and heaves the man, briefcase and scuffed shoes and evil pierced heart and all, into the trunk. He locks it. Summer like this, it'll smell in a few hours, but Harry needs to drive a few hours still.

He turns on the hosepipe at the side of the house and washes his hands clean, and then Harry knocks on the Tomlinsons' front door.

A bloodshot eye peers around the curtain, and then the door flies open with a scream and Harry's arms are full of Phoebe-Sunshine. "George!"

"Hey there, Sunshine," Harry says, his arms as tight around her as hers are around him. It's only been a week at most since he's seen her, but it seems like years.

"You're here!" She's already sobbing into his chest. "Please take me home with you, please take me home!"

"Shh, shh, you have to be quiet," Harry says, petting down her hair. "It's very important that you be quiet right now."

"No, don't let go of me!" Both of her eyes are black. "I wanna go home!"

"Okay, Sunshine, it's okay now," Harry murmurs. "Where's your mom?"

Phoebe looks confused and whimpers again. "She's not my mom, George, I just want Louis."

"He's not here right now, and you need to listen to me." Harry hates to make his voice sharp, but they don't have much time to waste.

Phoebe nods, tears spilling down her cheeks, and Harry kisses her forehead.

"I'm gonna take you home, okay, but we need your sisters. Can you bring me to your mom?"

"She's not," Phoebe mutters, but she sniffs hard and swipes a hand over her nose, nodding.

"Okay," Harry agrees gently. Phoebe probably needs someone to agree with her right now. "I still need to talk to her."

"She's inside," says Phoebe. "She didn't make breakfast right, but I thought it was really good."

Harry's heart sinks. "I'm sure it was good, if you liked it. Better than when Louis tries to make French toast, huh?"

"He tries his best." Phoebe pushes her face against Harry's chest. "Don't let go."

"Okay." Harry hoists Phoebe-Sunshine up into his arms and lets her direct him to the kitchen. Shards of broken plates litter the floor and scrambled egg sits in cold lumps like innards between the pieces.

"George!" Daisy shouts, tackling him around the waist.

"Oh, goodness – this must look – I'm sorry, how did you? I'm sorry, I'm cleaning it now, just – "

"Don't worry about it," Harry says, firm assurance. "Please, I don't have much time."

Jay Tomlinson stands up, a hand pressed to her ribs. "What are you doing here, George?"

Harry swallows. "You need to call the FBI and drop your husband's complaint. I'm going to bring the girls to a safe place. Louis and I should be back to get you soon."

"Call the FBI?" she asks, confusion plain on her face. "Why would I – why are you here?" she asks again.

"If you drop the complaint and explain that Louis just brought them for a visit, with your permission, then he'll be free to go. He hasn't committed any crime."

"My husband will never drop the – "

"You don't have to worry about it," Harry says firmly. "They're your daughters, too. You can drop the complaint. He won't contest it."

"Of course he'll contest it," she says, twisting her hands in her skirt. "You don't know my husband."

"Jay." Harry bends his knees just enough to meet her downcast eyes without dropping Phoebe. "You don't have to worry about him."

Something about what he's said changes her eyes, and her voice drops to a frightened whisper. "What have you done?" she asks. It's a wholly different question.

Harry licks his lip and looks down at the pair of battered twins clinging to him like a life raft. "I'm protecting our girls."

Her lips press together, the fabric in her hands so twisted that it looks like it might rip. "The others are still upstairs," she says after a long few seconds. "Lottie hasn't spoken to me since..."

"She doesn't talk much," Harry agrees gently. "But she'll be alright."

He has a twin attached to his leg, the other still in his arms, and he feels more at home than he's felt since leaving Louis at the agency.

"They'll all be alright," he amends.

Jay nods slowly. "And Louis?"

"He will, too." Harry will make sure of that. "And so will you."

Jay is a woman who doesn't remember how to trust. But she nods, all the same. "Lottie and Fizzy are upstairs in their room. The twins can show you the way, can't you, girls? You know where the bedroom is now, don't you?"

"I know how," asserts Daisy, dangling from Harry's hand. "Come on, George."

Harry squeezes her hand gently. "It's good to see you, Daisy."

"I missed you." She makes it sound like an accusation as she drags Harry out of the kitchen.

"I know, sweetpea, and I'm sorry. But we're going to go home. It'll be a new home, but it'll be home. Okay?"

"Home?" Phoebe asks from her perch on his arm.

"I promise," Harry says. "I told Louis that yesterday, too!"

"Is he okay?" chime two voices together, looking up at him, beseeching.

"He's alright," Harry says, and it's only partially a lie, unless Liam got in the box with him after Harry left last night.

The relief on their little faces is enough to keep him from feeling bad about half-lying to them.

They lead him up a spotless set of stairs, the wall hung with square-framed photos of Lottie and Fizzy. Their smiles age and fade as the years pass until they look more like husks than little girls.

He's taking them away from this. He can't see how anybody would think that was wrong.

Phoebe knocks on the door. "It's Sunshine! George came to get us!"

"What?" Fizzy sounds startled, of course, and her slightly uneven footsteps make their way to the door. She opens it and stares.

Lottie is sitting on one of the two twin beds, arms around her knees, staring resolutely out the window. Only two beds? Where have the twins been sleeping?

"Lottie," Fizzy says without looking away from Harry. "Lottie, look."

"It doesn't matter." Lottie's voice is hollow. "We're never really going to get away, Felicite. He's going to keep dragging us back."

"He won't bother you again," Harry says, hitching Phoebe higher in his arms. "I can promise you that."

Lottie turns slowly. Her nose has been flattened, a painful break. Her lips are both swollen. "How?"

"Because I've made sure that he won't." Lottie's old enough, smart enough that she could probably know the truth, but he won't say it out loud with the twins in the room.

Lottie stares at him. "Does my mom know?"

"She does," Harry says. He may not have told her in so many words, but she knows.

"Does Louis?"

It's clear that this is the deciding factor between Lottie believing him and leaving, or staying here and shrinking from fear.

"Yes." In some ways, Louis is the one who told him to do this. Louis is the reason he's here.

She unfolds her knees, but doesn't stand. "Where are we going?"

"We're gonna stop by the old house first," Harry says. "Some people managed to stay there, including the babies. And then we'll go find our new house in two shifts. And then I'll get Louis."

He's managed to get a solidly structured plan in place, in the hours since he left the agency. If everything goes as he needs it to, as it has to, this can work.

Lottie and Fizzy share a look, the kind the twins have that makes it seem like they're telepathic.

There's a tense moment where Harry's not sure what they're going to say, and then Lottie shuffles off of her bed.

"Are we going now?" she asks, her chin tipped up.

"Yeah," Harry says. "We have one stop to make on the way. I thought we might have a picnic lunch on the way. There's a nice lake in Massachusetts."

"Where did you come here from?" Fizzy asks, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Not the house?"

"No," Harry says. "I drove here from Virginia. Have you ever been there?"

She shakes her head. "What's in Virginia?"

"Well," Harry drawls thoughtfully, "We have beaches. And we have historical sites from a long time ago, and we have horses. And that's about it. But we're not going to Virginia, you and me."

“Where are we going?" She still walks with a limp from the broken leg, even if her cast is long-off.

Harry hums. "I don't know yet. Have you been to Vermont, maybe?"

She shakes her head again. "No, never. Only here and California and wherever the house was."

"I think we'd like Vermont," Harry says confidently. "We could have maple syrup."

"I like pancakes," says Lottie, absently. He's sure part of her still believes she'll never get away.

"Me, too." Harry shifts Phoebe to his other hip. "Do you want to bring anything along?"

"No," Lottie says.

Fizzy takes a few stuffed animals and a copy of _Frampton Comes Alive!_.

"Do either of you need anything to take with you? You won't be coming back here, so if you want anything, you need to get it now?" Harry directs his question to both twins. Daisy is still clinging to his hand.

"We left our things," Daisy says.

"Things don't matter, people do," Phoebe-Sunshine adds. "I miss Luxie and baby Amir and my Perrie and Louis."

"Well, we're going to see them very soon," says Harry. "You won't have to miss them much longer."

The girls look cautiously optimistic – more like their old selves.

If Harry hadn't already taken care of their father, seeing them like this, so downtrodden already after so short a time, Louis would do it himself with his bare hands.

It's a good thing he won't have to. Harry hasn't regretted it yet, and he doesn't think he will.

Unless they don't get out to the lake soon enough and his car starts to stink.

"Let's go, ladies," Harry says gently. "Go hug your mom. Louis and I will bring her to the new house soon."

He and the troop of girls make their way down the steps in a staggering line, Harry with a twin on either side trying to keep from knocking into either wall on the narrow staircase.

Fizzy hugs Jay with the lingering need that she was denied last time, Jay wincing through her surely-broken rib all the while.

"Be safe," Jay tells all of them, though her eyes are on Harry's. "Please."

Harry smiles at her. "That's the whole point. Make the call when we leave, and hopefully Louis and I can come get you soon."

"I will," she promises. Already, she seems to be standing straighter, a weight on her shoulders growing lighter.

Harry kisses her cheek gently. "Welcome to the family."

Her shoulders hitch and her head ducks, but he thinks he sees a smile on her lips.

Tentatively, Daisy steps forward and gives Jay a short hug before shuffling back to Harry.

Phoebe does the same, though she only reaches out with one arm so that she can keep the rest of her limbs touching Harry.

Jay kisses Lottie's forehead, too, even though the eldest doesn't react.

"Alright, kiddos," Harry says. "Let's go. Three in the backseat and one up front with me. We can trade out at lunchtime."

"I want the front," Phoebe says, or screeches, right next to his ear.

"Nuh-uh! I have the longest legs!" Lottie scowls.

"I have the shortest legs," Phoebe says back, aiming an admirable glare of her own back at Lottie.

"So you should sit in the back." Lottie rolls her eyes.

"My leg doesn't even work," Fizzy argues. "I should sit in the front."

Lottie and Phoebe both sigh. "Okay."

"Good, so it's agreed. Fizzy gets the front," Harry says, lowering Phoebe until her toes touch the ground and offering her his hand instead, as his arm was beginning to fall asleep. If they’re arguing to take the seat beside him, then at least some of the Tomlinsons still trust him. That’s a start. It’s a tight fit with three girls in the backseat, Fizzy and her stuffed animals in the passenger seat, and Harry in the drive. And of course, the dead body in the trunk.

He did the right thing. He knows that he did the right thing. It helped Louis, and that’s the most important way that Harry could live his life. For Louis.

All of a sudden, Daisy lets out a screech, “ _Wait_!”

She scrambles over laps to get out of the car, leaving Harry to stare after her, wondering if he’s going to need to go get her and put her back in the car. It doesn’t come down to that, though; she’s back within a minute, clutching a bedraggled, faded, familiar coat with entirely too much fringe.

“Okay,” she pants once she’s crawled back into her seat, clutching the coat to her chest. “I’m ready now. We can go now, George.”

Harry turns his head to hide that his eyes have gone misty, and silently twists the knob to turn on the radio, and maybe cover up the hitch in his breath.

“ _\--But time makes you bolder, even children get older, and I’m getting older, too… Oh, I’m getting older, too…_ ”

Harry eases the car onto the road and looks back towards his family. “Let’s go. We’re all free now.”

 

[](http://statcounter.com/free-web-stats/)


End file.
